


Apocrypha

by jikanet_tanaka



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Downward Spiral, F/M, Gen, Spoilers, from nobody to nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 159,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4317936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jikanet_tanaka/pseuds/jikanet_tanaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of course, the twins had lied to him all these years. The world had clearly gone mad, and it fell to the two of them—the ones forsaken by History—to be its judge, jury and executioner." </p><p>The story of a previous bearer of the White Chronicle. Huge spoilers for the entire game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The corridors of Castle Granorg were swarmed with servants today, all of them scurrying about for a reason Heinrich did not know. The king's youngest grandson was a short and slight ten-year-old who spent most of his days in quiet solitude; he was starting to find this agitation rather unnerving.

Heinrich clutched his books closer to his heart, peeking at the maids and valets from behind his glasses. They were all too busy to pay him any mind. His father's steward had forced him out of his favourite hiding place, the library, apparently at the crown prince's behest. A sliver of anxiety had sprung up in Heinrich's heart at this summon. The king's eldest son rarely concerned himself with the presence of his children, especially the youngest of the pair. What could the man want from him now?

The door to Father's study was slightly open, and Heinrich could hear the low rumbling of the man's voice coming from within. The boy hastily dropped his books on the floor before entering, interrupting Father mid-sentence. At the sight of his youngest son, the crown prince's expression noticeably darkened. Heinrich caught sight of a black-haired, broad-shouldered teenager leaning on a bookshelf by the window. The boy swallowed nervously as his older brother deigned to give him a glance. Victor's face broke into a sneer Heinrich knew all too well.

"Good day, Father," Heinrich said, ignoring Victor's grin. The words came out rather shakily, and he cursed himself for it. From out the corner of his eye, he could see Victor's smile growing meaner.

"Heinrich," Father grumbled, "sit," and he motioned to one of the chairs in front of the desk. The boy sat, while his brother slumped into the other seat.

"You must be wondering why I have called you here," Father said, pausing to clasp his hands in front of his mouth. "There is something of great importance I must tell you." The man sighed, and Heinrich's apprehension cranked up a notch. "I would have preferred to speak of this later, but the events of today forced my hand."

Victor leaned forward, and there was an eager look in his eyes. "Is this about the Ritual, Father?" he asked, his nonchalant tone barely hiding a touch of morbid curiosity.

Heinrich pointedly did not look at his brother as he waited for his father to continue. _The Ritual_. The word itself was ominous, but rolling on Victor's tongue, it hinted at even darker things. Heinrich knew that this mysterious tradition usually happened each decade or so, and that it was somehow responsible for preserving the safety of all living things on the continent. He was also aware that the last one had claimed the life of his grandfather's younger sister. This knowledge already left him unwilling to learn more about the subject. And the fact that Victor now appeared fascinated by the topic was enough to instantly kill any lingering interest he had in the matter altogether.

"The Ritual?" said Heinrich, trying to sound as aloof as Victor had been. "What does it have to do with what's happening today?"

"It's because Grandfather is going to be killed today," said Victor. Heinrich made a sharp turn to face him.

" _Wh-what?_ What do you mean...?"

There was a soft growl coming from their father, and suddenly the crown prince slammed his hands on the desk. Heinrich nearly jumped out of his skin, but Victor's expression did not change even in the face of their father's anger.

"Silence, boy!" the crown prince spat, his red eyes blazing at Victor. "Do not speak of my father's murder in such an insolent manner!"

_(Murder?!)_

Heinrich reeled back, staring at his father in silent horror. Victor only gave a grunt and a shrug.

"I still don't get why Grandfather is the one who has to be sacrificed," he said, raising a brow. "He's the king, after all. Why can't we use Uncle Conrad instead? If we follow tradition, _he's_ the one who should do it."

The crown prince was quiet for a moment. A muscle was twitching by the corner of his mouth, and sweat was trickling down his brow.

"Are you really so _ignorant_ , boy?" Father's voice finally came in a low hiss. "Do you truly believe your grandfather is so eager to see one of his own sons murdering the other?"

"But it's not like Grandfather being killed now will save Uncle Conrad in the end," Victor countered. "At best, he'll only give him another ten years since Uncle will still end up dead by your hand the next time the Ritual is performed."

The crown prince regarded his eldest son with an expression Heinrich could not decipher. Slowly, he slid back in his chair, sighing. The man had never looked as old as he did now. "For my father, ten years is enough," Heinrich's father said. "I pray you will understand the reasoning behind his sacrifice the day you find yourself with children of your own." His red eyes suspiciously veered toward Heinrich as his sentence came to an end.

The boy's cheeks flushed under the stare, and he lowered his eyes to evade his father's gaze. All this talk of death and murder and sacrifice was starting to make Heinrich's head spin. And there was this tiny but frantic voice whispering dreadful things from the back of his mind; yes, Father could have called them here to announce the king's death, yes, he could have summoned his sons to tell them of the Ritual being performed today, but what if there was more to it? What if the crown prince had specifically requested Victor and Heinrich's presences for another, darker reason? One that raised a possibility so terrifying it almost chilled the blood in Heinrich's veins.

Father's eyes were still fixed on Heinrich as he started to speak again. "Our bloodline was entrusted with the throne and the loathsome task of performing this Ritual on the day our ancestors disrupted the balance of Mana, centuries ago. The Royal Family of Granorg have thus always protected the continent, either as Kings and Queens for all to see, or as Sacrifices in the covers of the shadows. Both duties are necessary to preserve the well-being of the world." His gaze flicked rapidly from Heinrich to Victor. "Both duties are equally honourable for ones with blood as noble as yours, my sons."

Heinrich's heart was drumming in his chest. The horrific prospect his mind had dreamed up crept back into his thoughts as he rapidly passed over everything he knew. The king's younger sister, killed shortly before his birth. His grandfather—an anomaly—taking the place of the one who would traditionally be sacrificed. His uncle who would instead be murdered a decade away from now. Which meant that many years later, the one who would be chosen as a Sacrifice could only be—

 _"No!_ " Heinrich suddenly cried out, and now his voice was truly shaking, "Father, you can't possibly...! Y-you don't mean for me t-to...!"

The older man only buried his face in his hands. Perhaps it was a trick of his imagination, but Heinrich could swear he saw the corners of his brother's mouth twisting into a smirk. "Victor will succeed me as king," Father eventually said after a tense silence while Heinrich fought back sobs, unwilling to let Victor see his distress, "while you, Heinrich, will be a Sacrifice for the Ritual."

The boy rose from his chair so quickly he felt nauseous. Without so much a glance backwards, he bolted from his father's study, running as fast as his short legs could allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D


	2. Chapter 1 - Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

_Apocrypha_ \- _A_ Radiant Historia _fanfic_

_Part I - Heinrich_

* * *

  _The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out_  
_You left me in the dark_  
_No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight_  
_In the shadow of your heart_

 _And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat_  
_I tried to find the sound_  
_But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,_  
_So darkness I became_

Florence + The Machines, _Cosmic Love_

* * *

 

The courtyard of Castle Granorg was bathed by the gentle rays of the afternoon sun on this late day of spring. By the castle walls, a pair of knights were chatting as they patrolled the area. Not far away, an old servant swept the stony pathway that led to the palace's pantry while a pair of gossiping maids passed by at a brisk pace, balancing heavy bags of laundry on their hips. Under a solitary tree, unnoticed by the guards and servants, a pale young man was sprawled on his back, his expression hidden by a book lying open on his face. For the past hour or so he had attempted to decipher this infuriatingly cryptic treatise about the uses of healing magic and—to his intense annoyance—he had failed miserably at this task.

The young man's eyelids were growing heavier, and he could sense a headache rearing its ugly head. He groaned from under the book, cursing the scholars of the Old Empire. It seemed they could not be bothered to write something that was somehow readable. _No wonder magic has regressed so much after the Empire's fall_ , he thought bitterly.

Lulled by the chirps of the birds nesting in the tree above, he let himself drift into a doze. His slumber did not last long; soon, the hushed sounds of two people whispering and giggling together floated to his ears. The noises forced him out of a series of pleasant daydreams. With an irritated grunt, he slipped the book from his face... only to be greeted by the sight of a wooden sword hovering a mere inch away from his nose.

With a loud screech, the young man abruptly sat up, sending his book and glasses flying. The owner of the wooden sword burst out in laughter in response.

"Whoa, whoa, Uncle Heinrich! Calm down!" said the boy with the sword. His blue-green eyes brightened up in a baffled smile. Next to him there was a young girl with thick golden curls decorated with blue ribbons. She held a wooden sword as well, but in contrast to her brother, she seemed concerned rather than amused.

"Uncle, are you alright?" Heinrich's niece Eruca asked meekly. He shot her a sullen look, and her cheeks reddened. She turned to face her older brother. "Ernst, you shouldn't have done that, that wasn't very nice!"

"You could have poked my eye out!" Heinrich said, scowling.

The boy let out another nervous laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you! You just wouldn't wake up!"

With a sheepish grin, Ernst gave the glasses back to Heinrich. The latter could only snort indignantly as he adjusted them on his long, hooked nose.

"What are you two doing here, anyway?" said Heinrich. "Aren't you two supposed to be at your lessons right now?"

The two children exchanged coy smiles.

"Well, we were at our fencing lesson right now, but we were taking a break to go find something to eat," Ernst explained. He shifted from one foot to the other in a sudden and unusual bout of shyness. "And when we saw you, we thought we could ask you to join us. It would be fun, right?"

Heinrich hummed a wordless reply as he passed a hand through his pale brown hair in a futile attempt to comb it. He was a dreadful fencer, but Ernst and Eruca were reasonably talented and they gave him much more trouble than he would have expected (or liked). The last time he'd sparred with them, they had even managed to secure a victory; the two had unexpectedly ganged up on him, Ernst tugging one of his arms while Eruca had grabbed his leg tightly, and Heinrich had ended up toppling to the ground, swearing profusely all the way down.

Heinrich sighed at the memory. It had not been one of his proudest moments. "I'm sorry, children, but not today," was his curt reply. He crawled on all fours to retrieve his book, taking on an affected air as he continued, "Perhaps you had not noticed, but I'm rather busy at the moment." Heinrich was a bit spiteful that he still had no clue on how to put in practice even the most basic of healing spells. He prided himself in being one of the best—if not _the_ best—spellcasters in the entire castle, and to be unable to mend the smallest of cuts gnawed away at what little self-esteem he already had.

"You were busy sleeping?" Ernst asked. His expression was innocent except for his gaze—the blue-green eyes were full of mischief.

"I was only resting for a bit," a peevish Heinrich replied.

Ernst looked thoughtful, but Heinrich was not fooled. There was still that _spark_ in the boy's eyes, the one he knew so well.

"Are you scared you'll lose again?" Ernst said. "I mean, that's what it looks like to me..."

"Ernst!" Eruca cried out, looking at her brother in dismay.

Heinrich crossed his arms, raising a single eyebrow. "Why, you ill-mannered brat," and, as he pushed his glasses up his nose, his face broke into a ferocious grin. "If you insist so much on having your sorry little behind being _thoroughly_ thrashed."

Ernst smirked back in earnest. "I'm sorry, Uncle, but that won't happen. You'd have to catch me first, you know, and you've always been so _slow_."

Behind Ernst, Eruca rolled her eyes heavenward.

"I really don't get the two of you sometimes," she muttered as Heinrich jumped to his feet, ready to follow the two children back to their lesson.

* * *

The training grounds were soon filled with the sounds of wood clashing with wood and the laughter of the two children. The master-at-arms, a middle-aged man named Rutger, advised them to begin with a friendly melee. As always, Ernst quickly deemed his little sister to be an adversary unworthy of his talents, turning instead all of his attention to Heinrich; the pair spent most of the battle exchanging quips while Eruca stood on the sidelines, watching their duel of sword and wit with an expression torn between amusement and annoyance.

After a while, Heinrich realized the girl was indeed itching for a fight. He steered himself toward the poor child, and Eruca promptly seized the occasion, creeping up behind her uncle to poke him in the back with the tip of her sword. Heinrich lamented his defeat with loud theatrics, prompting a few chuckles from Ernst and even a proud smile from Eruca. Heinrich was not unhappy to join the master-at-arms in watching his nephew and niece spar; he was sure he'd sport a few bruises here and there tomorrow.

"Young Master," said Rutger, "remember to keep your stance wide and low!"

"Got it!" Ernst shot back as Rutger moved to face Eruca.

"Lady Eruca, please lower your sword a bit! You have to be able to protect your legs as well as your upper body!"

"I'll keep it in mind, thank you," the girl said. "One day, I'll even be able to beat Ernst!" There was a stubbornness in her eyes that Heinrich found endlessly amusing (and rather adorable).

The boy only let out a loud and insolent _'hah!_ ' in response.

"Like that will ever happen!" he said, pausing to give his uncle and Rutger a confident cock of the eyebrow.

It was the opening Eruca had been waiting for. Her expression full of determination, she dashed at her brother, her blue dress flapping in the wind. Ernst hurriedly raised his practice sword, but she swung her own weapon with great force, sending his wooden blade flying away and the boy tumbling to the ground.

The siblings gaped at each other, both shocked speechless. Ernst in particular appeared so awestruck that Heinrich had to bite down a laugh at his expression.

" _Whoa_ , Ruca, that was really something!" Still, Ernst's surprise and embarrassment quickly melted away, and soon enough that cocksure grin of his was back. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

Eruca blushed and tucked a golden curl behind her ear, giggling and giving a small mock curtsy to her brother in reply. Her smile soon faded, however, and a startled, almost frightened expression settled on her face. Heinrich and Rutger followed the direction of her eyes, the master-at-arms quickly dropping to his knees at the sight of the person who stood in the passageway above the training grounds.

It was Heinrich's older brother and Ernst and Eruca's father.

Victor, the ninth king of the blessed kingdom of Granorg.

"At ease, Rutger," Victor said, his gaze focused on Ernst. The boy went hastily to his feet, his face red with shame.

"So, you've let yourself be beaten by a little girl, Prince Ernst?" the king addressed his son. "Has the master-at-arms taught you so poorly or is it pure laziness on your part?"

Rutger gave a nervous cough. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I shall train the prince harder from now on."

"You should start by ceasing the girl's lessons," Victor replied coolly. "She will not need them."

Eruca became very still, her arms dropping limply at her sides. Her big blue eyes stared hollowly at her father. Heinrich felt an sudden urge to lunge at the man. The king had not said it outright, but the implication was still there. She was the second child. She was the spare. Like her uncle Heinrich before her, she would probably end up being—

"Father, that's unfair!" Ernst cried out. "She loves these lessons, you can't—!"

"I can and I will," Victor said, his pale eyes finding Heinrich, "but I am not here to discuss such things." Heinrich held the man's gaze, trying to show as little of his displeasure as he could manage. "Actually, I was looking for you, dearest brother."

A sense of foreboding crept over Heinrich. "How strange. I had the impression you rather disliked my company."

"You are not mistaken," Victor answered in a dry tone. "But I'll put that aside for the moment being. Come to my study immediately. There is something rather important we must talk about." And the man turned on his heel and disappeared inside the castle.

Heinrich sighed. There existed only one issue that would be pressing enough to prompt Victor to seek his younger brother's company.

"What's his problem?" a disgusted Ernst muttered.

Heinrich grimaced. "It's nothing that should concern you, Ernst," he replied through grit teeth, purposely not meeting his nephew's gaze. "Nothing that should concern you."

* * *

Heinrich had never gotten along with his elder brother, but their relation had turned from a frosty neutrality into outright hatred only seven years ago, not long after their father's death. The old king's corpse had barely started to cool when Victor had dragged his younger brother to a impromptu meeting with the few lords who had managed to claw their way into his good books. Heinrich had been just out of his teen years, then; to find himself suddenly under the scrutiny of the most important men of the country had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his short life.

He could recall clearly how silent and dismayed he'd been as he stood in the middle of the vast council hall, watching the lords as they bickered among themselves. They had been all eager to offer their daughters or nieces or sisters as potential brides for the new king's younger brother. Heinrich had endured their scheming and squabbling and barely disguised scorn for most of the meeting without uttering a sound, but then, for a reason he still could not name, something had flared up inside him, and he had abruptly shouted, _"I'm not getting married!"_

A murmur had gone through the lords' midst at his outburst. Heinrich might have been of royal blood, but to have anyone raising their voice at the king or his counsellors was unheard of.

"We are the only remnants of the Imperial bloodline, brother," Victor had then replied, sounding a tad irritated. "We must make sure we both have descendants who can carry out the Ritual after our deaths."

That unexplainable wave of anger had crashed through Heinrich again.

"I'm not having children only to be forced to leave them behind," he'd hissed, a violent note slipping in his tone. He could still remember himself glaring at his brother from behind his glasses and the king staring back with an icy expression. "I'm not having children only to have them murdering each other some ten years after my death!"

And without another word, he had stormed out of the hall.

It was with this memory in mind that Heinrich entered Victor's study, finding his brother waiting with his back turned. Victor had left their father's solar almost intact, except for the addition of a large portrait depicting his dearly departed wife. Strangely enough, the man had loved the queen with a quiet, subdued passion even though he showed no affection to his son and barely acknowledged his daughter's existence. Heinrich displayed a mean-spirited grin at the sight of the painting. Queen Sophia had always been fond of her brother-in-law and she had often confided in him. The day she had died, Heinrich had lost a stalwart ally and friend.

Victor faced Heinrich, then cleared his throat, stirring the younger of the two brothers out of his reminiscences.

"For once, you heeded my order quickly," said the king. "I hope it's a sign that you've begun to understand where you really stand in the order of things." Heinrich translated his brother's thought in his head. _I'm the king. You're not. Know your place. That is, squashed right under my boot._

"No," Heinrich said placidly, "I just wanted to get this done as quick as possible. You can be annoyingly persistent when you don't get what you want."

A slight crease appeared between Victor's eyebrows. "If it amuses you to act like a child, then so be it, but don't expect me to accept more insolence from you. I am already at the end of my wits with you."

Heinrich's mouth formed a perfect circle in mock puzzlement. "Are you? What have I done to anger you so much?"

The king scowled. Heinrich was genuinely amazed that he had not yet exploded in one of his famous rages. "You've neglected your duties. Our time is running out, and the Ritual will be upon us in only three short years." Victor's lips slowly twisted into a half-smile. "How long has it been since you've been given the White Chronicle?"

Heinrich swallowed nervously. The White Chronicle. The White Book of Mana. It was the guide that was bestowed to all Sacrifices in order to hone their magical potential and enable their spiritual awakening. Only, Heinrich had yet to become the old tome's true master and thus unlock all of its powers. He fought to keep his composure, but Victor's words brought a slew of bad memories to the forefront of his mind.

"Oh, I can't remember. Five, six years perhaps?" Heinrich's tone was pleasant, but there was no way Victor would not see through that idiotic lie. The youngest of the two brothers remembered that day perfectly. And Victor knew this. He just wanted to twist the knife in the wound as much as he could. As he had done seven years ago when he had stabbed and murdered Heinrich under the indifferent gazes of all who had stood watch in the Ritual chamber below Castle Granorg.

"Why, then, have you not awakened the Chronicle's powers?" Victor said. "I haven't torn my soul in half to keep your miserable carcass alive only to have you waste your days playing with children and doing who knows what else."

"Well, to be honest with you, brother, I've yet to figure out how to do so..."

It was true—from a certain point of view. Heinrich knew how the preceding Sacrifices had managed to awaken the old book's potential—by deliberately putting themselves in life-threatening situations. He had no idea why such a suicidal course of action so made them true bearers of the Chronicle, but he wasn't so keen on finding out anyway.

"I could arrange something to help you," Victor began. His voice had trickled down to that low-pitched rumble he kept for the moments where he dropped his facade and showed his true colours. "If it pleases you, I can always set a couple of the castle guards on you. It would be entertaining to see how you would fare."

Heinrich did not answer. Suddenly, he found himself unable to stomach the sight of his brother's face, and his eyes wandered to the door, which had been left slightly ajar. His heart gave a jolt as he glimpsed a bit of golden hair in the slight gap.

"You have no idea how delighted I would be to assist you," Victor continued, apparently not noticing the boy hiding behind the door, "how glad I would be to finally be able to _teach_ you what happens to those who disregard their duty."

Heinrich looked back at him with widening eyes. Damn Ernst and that curious streak of his! If his father caught him eavesdropping...

"I'll be fine, I'll manage on my own," Heinrich croaked. He turned to leave. "I should be going now."

"Oh? Are you scared, little brother? Are you going to run as you did all those years ago, like the coward you really are?"

Heinrich spun back on his feet to scowl at his brother, his fright momentarily forgotten. "I am _not_ a coward."

The king threw his head back laughing. Heinrich could feel his fingernails digging in his palms in shame and outrage. He opened his mouth to retort, but Ernst suddenly erupted into the room, his lovely features distorted by anger.

"Stop it!" he shouted, turning a blind eye to the surprised—and furious—look his father shot him. "Uncle is _not_ a coward!"

" _Ernst_ —" Victor began, his voice dangerously low.

The boy just glared at him harder. "You threatened him! And to be _beaten up_ by guards, too?! That's _sick!_ Why do you always treat him and Eruca so horribly? You have no right to do this!"

Ernst had all but screamed the last sentence, his angry eyes brimming with tears.

"How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent little brat?" Victor said in a murmur so full of wrath it raised the hair on Heinrich's arms in fright. The king steered himself toward his son, raising a hand to strike the boy. Ernst seemed too numb with shock to move, and there was a sharp feminine cry from behind the door as Victor's hand came down—

—and hit squarely Heinrich in the face. Had it not hurt so much, Heinrich would have been amused by the startled—and downright unflattering—expression sported by his brother.

A tense silence followed, and Heinrich could hear Eruca giving a soft sob from behind the door.

"What do you think you're doing, _brother?"_ Victor rasped as he towered over Heinrich.

Heinrich rubbed his weary cheek and quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Getting hit by you, it seems." The king flared his teeth in warning, but Heinrich continued in a mockingly sweet tone. "Please let me leave, dearest brother. I was helping your son and daughter with their lesson, after all. Interfering with your children's education is counterproductive, is it not?" Then, under his breath, he added without much enthusiasm. "Beside, you will be able to have your revenge on me soon enough. So you might want to save your anger for this moment. For your own amusement and such."

The corners of Victor's mouth curled into a satisfied smirk. "Oh, I'll _savour_ that moment plenty," the king whispered, his face only inches away. A shudder went down Heinrich's spine, but he stubbornly kept staring into the king's blue eyes out of sheer spite.

"Ernst, let's go," Heinrich said, gently pushing the boy out of his father's study. In the corridor, the two of them met up with Eruca—the poor girl was standing stiff in silent shock. The king had never been exceptionally apt at dealing with his chronic bouts of rage, but his fury had never resulted in an attempt at physical violence before. Heinrich did not want to dwell on the reasons that could have driven his brother to cross this particular line.

"What was this all about?" Ernst eventually said. "Did he... really mean what he said?"

Heinrich did not answer; for once, he had no comforting words or explanation to offer his nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D


	3. Chapter 2 - The Language of Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

_Heinrich found the Royal Hall to be strangely beautiful._

_The boy had a slight spring in his step as he entered the ruins carved in the rocky underbelly of Castle Granorg, stopping only to give an occasional glance to his father, who was limping off behind. The architecture here was nothing like the other parts of the castle. Heinrich voiced his thought aloud, and the old king explained that the catacombs dated from the Empire's golden days. As father and son continued to advance through the ruins, Heinrich's eyes darted everywhere, the boy finding himself completely fascinated by the otherworldly beauty of his surroundings. No torches illuminated the great spaces of the Hall; instead, strange mechanical devices used crystallized Mana to diffuse a soft glow that dispelled the darkness. Heinrich could also see the remnants of a few stone columns in the greenish light cast by the crystals; the once great pillars were now mostly rubble covered by a thick layer of moss. The walls had been embellished with some engravings, but time had all but erased the work of the Imperial artisans. For some reason, it saddened Heinrich. If rock could not stand the passing of the ages, why would the life of only one man be remembered by future generations?_

_They finally arrived at a damp cave where several crystals of pure Mana shone brightly, scattering bits of violet light everywhere. Heinrich managed to tear his gaze away from the scenery, his eyes now discerning the large form of a man in the gloom. Instantly, his awe melted away. He gave a startled cry, taking a few steps backward, only to be stopped by two men in armour who grabbed him by the arms._

_"Father!" Heinrich screamed, and suddenly the voice that came out of his mouth did not belong to a child but to a young man. "I can't do it! Don't make me do it!"_

_The king moved to hold his son's hand, apologizing over and over again while tears streamed from his cheeks into his long, unkempt beard. Heinrich clasped his father's bony fingers, looking back at him with fearful eyes. The old man seemed unaware of Heinrich's distress; the name he kept repeating was his younger brother's, not his son's._

_The man who stood at the centre of the cave marched solemnly toward Heinrich. A bit of violet light fell upon him, finally showing his features. In one hand Victor held the Black Chronicle, the counterpart of the White Chronicle that was given to the one who would cast the necessary spells for the Ritual. In the other, there was a dagger shining in the darkness._

_"No!" Heinrich tried to break away from the guards' grasp. "Please, no!"_

_"Each of us has a duty to accomplish for the sake of the world, remember?" Victor's lips were pressed together in a stern line, but his eyes were squinted in a vicious smile. "I shall fulfill mine as king; it's time for you to perform yours as well."_

_Heinrich managed to glare at his brother with a defiant fearfulness._

_"It should have been you," he replied weakly before finally summoning all of his courage to scream those words again. "It should have been you!"_

_The dagger twirled in Victor's hand. "But you're the one who's been chosen." And without further warning, he thrust the blade into Heinrich's stomach._

* * *

Heinrich gasped suddenly. His eyes squeezed shut, he let out a pained groan, body taut as an arrow. After a few moments where he grabbed at his chest in a hazy state of distress and confusion, Heinrich finally opened his eyes, his crazed heartbeat gently slowing down. He was only laying in bed, the sheets tangled around him.

Heinrich spent several long seconds staring at the bed canopy, struggling to erase from his mind the images brought by his nightmare, as he always did whenever he dreamed of this particular event. The day where he had been killed then resurrected by his brother had been the subject of many nightly terrors, although this one had been fairly tame compared to some others. Once, he had woken up screaming and thrashing in his bed, and the servants who had come rushing into his chambers had to hold him down to keep him from harming himself. From what he had understood from their frightened testimonial, they had found him clawing at his face and shrieking _"get it out of me, get it out of me!"_ He still had a pale, silvery mark over his eyebrow from where his fingernails had pierced the skin.

Heinrich sighed, and his hand unconsciously came to rest on his stomach, his fingers tracing the long scar from over the fabric of his nightshirt. Usually the Sacrifices were killed using far less barbaric methods, but Victor had been unwilling to follow tradition on that part. It could have been a childish and convoluted way to spite their father, who had died a few weeks prior to Heinrich's first death and subsequent resurrection. On his deathbed, the old king had highly criticized his eldest son before revealing, in a weak voice so unlike the booming one Heinrich had always associated with the man, a secret wish that his youngest child had been born first. Victor had gone very still at this admission; he had then watched their father draw his last breath with an expression that still chilled Heinrich to this day.

The sun was already up high in the sky when Heinrich finally decided to leave the comfort of his soft silk sheets. He moved to sit at the edge of his bed, pausing to gaze significantly at his desk, where the White Chronicle was hidden in a secret drawer he had built seven years ago. Sighing, he finally staggered toward his wardrobe, only to stop when something small and red and _loud_ barrelled into his room.

"Uncle! _Uncle!_ " Ernst cried out as he ran toward Heinrich. "Good morning! How are you today?"

Heinrich winced as the boy looked at him with suspiciously starry eyes and a grin too broad to be trustworthy.

"What on earth did they put in your breakfast this morning, my boy?" Heinrich said. He massaged his temples and peered down at Ernst with a mixture of bemusement and exasperation.

Ernst huffed, putting his hands on his hips.

"Wait, don't tell me you _forgot!_ " he said indignantly. "Today is the beginning of the Midsummer Festival! You said you would go with me! You promised!"

Heinrich cursed under his breath. The Midsummer Festival had all but slipped his mind. Since the death of Queen Sophia four years ago, he had started smuggling his nephew out of the castle whenever the boy seemed in low spirits. Ernst had grown especially fond of walking the capital's streets when the Midsummer Festival was in full swing.

"And you said Ruca could go this year too," Ernst said, pointing to the door where Eruca stood half-hidden, watching the exchange with wide blue eyes. She shifted from her spot and tottered toward Heinrich and Ernst, her brows knitted in a shy and unhappy frown.

Heinrich sighed, passing his hand through his hair. "I don't feel so well," he said, making no note of Ernst's dejected expression. "I'm sorry, my boy. Maybe next year..."

Ernst bit his lip. "You've been cooped up inside for almost a month now! You stopped coming down to dinner, you don't want to read or spar with us anymore... you didn't even think of taking care of your garden! If we hadn't asked old man Gedeon to do it for you, it would have just dried up and died! It's a bit worrying, you know..."

"Are you sick?" Eruca added in a wavering voice. "Are you going to die like Mother?"

"What? Of course not!"

_(Just wait two or three years for that, my dear.)_

Heinrich inwardly cringed. His subconscious had been quite the pessimist lately. His best explanation was that it acted that way in response to Victor's not-so-subtle threats of sending someone to _'assist'_ him in awakening the White Chronicle's powers. He was still a bit surprised he had not yet glimpsed the flicker of a blade in some dark corner of his bedchambers whenever he went to sleep.

"Uncle, please!" said Ernst. "Come with us! It'll cheer you up." He and his sister both gazed up at him, their big shining eyes silently pleading with him.

Heinrich buried his face in his hands, knowing fully that the last bit of resistance inside him had all but crumbled the moment they had looked at him like that. He was already incapable of refusing Ernst anything whenever the boy used this ruthless tactic, and together, the two siblings were an even more implacable force, one that could chip away the strongest of all resolves.

"Fine, fine, we'll go," he said. It was hard to ignore the bizarre sentiment fluttering somewhere in his chest as their faces broke into big smiles.

"Great! Thanks, Uncle, you're the best!" Ernst said. He launched himself at his uncle for a quick hug. Heinrich flinched and awkwardly patted the child on the head, giving a sigh of relief as Ernst let go of him.

"Let's go, Ruca, we should give him some time to get prepared," Ernst said. His sister gave a small nod in agreement. "Should we meet you at our usual spot, then?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Heinrich mumbled back, a bit of red creeping up his cheeks.

"Alright! See you later!"

Heinrich watched the children darting out of his bedchambers like two tiny whirlwinds, a simple smile slowly emerging on his features. He doubted Victor could send his minions after him if he happened to be out of the castle all day, now, couldn't he?

* * *

Heinrich found Ernst and Eruca in the courtyard, not far from the main gate. The two children were waiting in the darkened alcove he and Ernst always used as a meeting point whenever they sneaked outside of the castle. A green cap was planted on Ernst's golden head, bringing out the colour of his eyes. He was also wearing a dirty, worn-out sweater, the dullness of his outfit however disrupted by the addition of a bright red scarf. Eruca had arranged her hair in two plaits and, to Heinrich's surprise, she had put on with her plain white shirt an ill-fitting pair of pants held by suspenders. He quirked an eyebrow at her attire, and she looked at the ground meekly.

"I asked Lady Beth to lend us some of her son's old clothes," Ernst answered Heinrich's silent question. Beth was the children's nanny; she had also watched over Heinrich and his brother in their youth, and he was still rather fond of her for this reason. "I've asked her to cover for us too. Last thing we need is for Father to come snooping in our business, right?"

Eruca awkwardly tugged on her suspenders. "Is it alright for me to put on something like this? Are lowborn girls even allowed to wear pants? Father always said that—"

"It's alright, child," Heinrich said, rolling his eyes. "A lot of girls wear pants instead of skirts." With a grimace, he added, "With a bit of luck, your father will never even know that you spent the day in that getup. You have to stop being so frightened of him all the time!"

Heinrich sighed, his gaze growing softer as he leaned toward the two children. "Today, let's all just forget about your father. Today, we are not members of the royal family of Granorg. We are just an average family enjoying the festival like everyone else."

"Okay," Eruca answered in a soft mutter. She began to fiddle with one of her braids. "But won't the people in the city recognize you or Ernst?"

"I already told you, Ruca. That's why we're dressed like this. We look just like any other commoners now!"

Heinrich let out a little snort at his nephew's reply. There was no way that Ernst, with his ivory white skin and chubby red cheeks, could be mistaken for a lowborn child. And Eruca had an aristocratic air about her. She was too courteous, too well-mannered to be anything but a nobleman's daughter. Only Heinrich could somehow pass for a commoner. Indeed, in all of his trips to the city, nobody had ever realized that the fidgety, long-nosed youth walking discreetly through the crowds also happened to be the king's reclusive brother. Heinrich's mood darkened. As a matter of fact, he doubted the common people even cared to know that the king had a younger brother.

"And if we get robbed or something, then Uncle will just have to set them on fire with a spell."

Eruca stared at her brother, her eyes wide with pure horror.

Heinrich groaned as Ernst began to laugh. "Don't listen to your brother, Eruca. I don't really set people on fire." He exchanged a quick glance with Ernst. "That is, unless they really deserve it."

Eruca appeared even more dismayed, and Heinrich and Ernst shared a grin.

"You're making fun of me again, aren't you?" she said, pouting.

Ernst gave her an affectionate pat on the head. "Absolutely. Besides, nothing will happen, Ruca. Uncle and I did this a thousand times before, and nobody noticed us. We should get going, anyway." Ernst suddenly grasped his uncle's hand, and it took all of Heinrich's willpower not to react badly at the touch. "Ruca, take Uncle's hand!"

The girl's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Why?" she said weakly. Heinrich could see from her eyes that she shared his own distaste at the idea.

"Just do it," Ernst said. "Uncle can get us out of the castle without anybody noticing us."

"Really?"

"Trust me!"

It took a moment, but finally Eruca wrapped her tiny fingers around Heinrich's hand.

"Great! Uncle, whenever you're ready!"

Heinrich surveyed their surroundings, carefully noting the location of every guard in the courtyard and on the castle walls. The small alcove usually hid them from all prying eyes, but he was never one to take chances; there would be hell to pay if word of their little trip got to his brother.

It seemed none of the guardsmen had caught sight of them. Closing his eyes, Heinrich inhaled slowly, focusing his attention of the flow of magic that existed naturally within his being. The flux of Mana inside him instantly responded to his call. He soon sensed a prickling all over his skin and felt the hair on his arms standing as though he had received a slight electric shock.

Satisfied, he opened his eyes. "Alright, let's go," he whispered to the children. "Walk slowly and don't say a word, please."

The three of them began their trek toward the castle gate, and Heinrich noted with some amusement that Eruca looked as clueless as ever. From out the corner of his eye, he could see that Ernst was suppressing a desire to laugh as well.

Luck was on their side today, and only a pair of soldiers guarded both ends of the gate. Heinrich and the children passed brazenly in front of them, and neither of the guardsmen seemed to notice that the king's younger brother was taking the prince and the princess out to the city without their father's approval. Eruca's eyes grew round, and she gaped at the two soldiers over her shoulder as they crossed the drawbridge.

Heinrich brought the children to a small alleyway not far from the castle gates, and with a long, painful exhalation, he finally released their hands. As he clumsily loosened his cravat and collar to regain his breath, he could see that Eruca was staring goggle-eyed at him, her mouth opening and closing in quick succession.

"What just happened?" she asked in a tiny voice.

Ernst burst out in laughter. "That, Ruca, was Uncle's very own Vanish spell! Neat, isn't it?"

Heinrich gave a great gasp. "It's not... _my_ Vanish spell... I just learned it... from a book..."

Eruca still appeared at a complete loss. "How did you...?"

"I don't really know... how it works," Heinrich explained as he felt his breathing slowing down, "but as you can see, it's quite a pain to use since it drains Mana rather quickly. In fact, it needs an amount of Mana I don't think anyone but a member of our family could gather."

The two children cocked their heads in puzzlement. "Mana?"

Heinrich grimaced as he tried to find the words to express such a concept. "It's the magical energy contained in every being in the world." He winced, leaning on the wall to fight back a bout of dizziness. "I believe it anchors our souls to our bodies, but we will never know for sure since most of our knowledge about the subject was lost when the Empire fell."

He adjusted his cravat while the children continued to watch him with obvious curiosity. "The people of our bloodline are naturally strong in magic, more so than the average human being. I don't think anyone—save perhaps a few Beastkind—can amass as much Mana as we do," Heinrich finished, his voice carrying a bitter note. He could not help but scowl as he mulled over these words. _In fact, children, it's one of the reasons why I will be a dead man in three short years_. _Amusing, isn't it?_

A thick silence hung in the air as a shadow lingered in Heinrich's eyes.

"Right, then," Ernst began, looking at his uncle with a slight frown, "let's get going before we all grow roots here. Where should we go first?"

Ernst's question snapped Heinrich out of his reverie. He opened his mouth to suggest something, but then his gaze came to rest on Eruca; the girl was holding her stomach with a strangely miserable expression.

"Eruca?" Heinrich asked. "What's wrong? Are you hungry?" She gave a tiny nod, and Ernst smiled sheepishly. Heinrich could not help but groan.

"Sorry, Uncle," Ernst said, "we kind of skipped breakfast. I guess it slipped our mind." He chuckled. "Can we stop at the bakery over there to get something?"

"Of course," Heinrich replied, a corner of his mouth reluctantly going upward in a half-smile, "go on, I'll rest here for a bit." The spell had drained more of his energy than he would have thought. "Keep in mind that I don't have that much money on me today. I'll give you twelve coppers each, but please, nephew, don't blow it all off on sweets this year too, all right?"

* * *

"Oh, come on, Uncle!" Ernst said as he rummaged in his bag for a cookie. "Don't be so moody! That lady was pretty nice to give us a discount since we were buying so many. We've saved, um, what, four cops?"

"That's a bargain," Eruca chimed in as she nibbled on her own cookie, "isn't it?"

Heinrich only responded with a grunt as they made their way through the thick crowd.

"I wouldn't call it a bargain when you've wasted most of the money I gave you on those cookies," he said. "I should have known that I could not trust you."

"At least we'll have enough food to last for the day!"

Heinrich's eyes narrowed as he stared at his nephew in silent disdain. The boy replied with such a dumb grin that Heinrich found himself answering with a smile of his own in spite of himself.

"You're quite the brat, you know that, nephew?" Heinrich said, barely masking the fondness that coloured his voice. "And here I am, trying to make sure you'll grow up to be the perfect gentleman..."

Ernst had the eyes of a wounded puppy. "That's pretty nasty, calling your only nephew a brat. Why are you so keen on destroying what little self-esteem I have?" And he stuffed his face with yet another cookie.

The rest of the day went fairly well. The children abounded with energy, making up for their uncle's lack of liveliness. As always, Ernst was happy to interact with the people of the city. He complemented the artisans on their craft, haggled (or rather _attempted_ to haggle) with the merchants on the prices of their wares and questioned the farmers on the state of their crops, the commoners all charmed by his cheerful demeanour and the inquisitive spark that lit up his eyes. Nevertheless, Heinrich became a bit apprehensive when he noticed the anxiety brimming under their smiles; it seemed the peasants feared the harvest would shape up to be particularly disastrous this year. Last summer, a drought had struck the easterly parts of the kingdom, and the resulting food shortage still held most of the kingdom in a tenacious grip. Perhaps it was only caused by the whims of Mother Nature, but the gloomiest part of Heinrich's psyche suspected it could be some freakish resurgence of the desertification process that technically should have been stopped with his uncle Conrad's sacrifice seven years ago.

The children also dragged him along to a number of attractions, including an archery contest that Eruca watched with great interest and the show of a travelling troupe of musicians and dancers. Heinrich had not been very impressed with the band's performance. As they walked away, he explained to Ernst that a group of Celestian artists he had seen as a teenager had been much more memorable. To Heinrich's great amusement, Ernst had became red with jealousy.

"You've seen a Satyros troupe!" the boy said huffily as Heinrich tried to hide his grin. "You're so lucky! I wish I could meet some Beastkind or visit their countries. They live in villages hidden inside the forest, right? That's amazing! It must be so much better than living in a stuffy castle."

"Most of them also hate our kind," Heinrich responded, his smile gone. "The Alistellians have been giving them trouble for quite a while now. They don't even allow us inside their borders anymore."

Ernst sighed. "Why does everybody have to fight? If we were at peace, then I could go see the Satyros in Celestia and even the Gutrals in Forgia, and they could come to Granorg."

Heinrich had nothing to say to this. Once again, dark thoughts filled his head. After his death, where would the world go? Would the people of Vainqueur put down their weapons and fulfil Ernst's naive wish? Or would the continent be engulfed in war yet again as the silent slaughter of his family in that godforsaken Ritual went on unopposed?

"Oh! Ernst, Uncle, look at the flowers! They're so pretty!" Eruca said happily.

Heinrich blinked, before looking in the direction his niece was pointing. Strangely enough, he remembered vaguely the brightly painted sign of the shop and the old man tending to the flowers. Although the street was busy with festival goers, there was currently no customers, leaving the shopkeeper to smoke his pipe undisturbed.

"Hey!" Ernst said. "I remember that place! Isn't that the flower shop we go to each year? The one where the guy tried to talk you into becoming a part-timer last time? You'd do very good, I think."

Heinrich quirked a brow. "You would unleash me on some poor unsuspecting customers? I never thought you to be so cruel."

Eruca tugged at her uncle's sleeve. "Can we stop to buy some?" she asked. "We could get something for Lady Beth, wouldn't that be nice?"

"Yeah! That's a great idea!"

"We could, but we don't have that much money left. I wonder why..."

"Oh, come on, let it go!" Ernst replied sullenly.

Heinrich only kept a haughty silence as he headed for the flower shop, children in tow.

The shopkeeper put his pipe aside. "Good afternoon to you, my good man! What can I do for you today?"

"The children want something for their nanny. Do you have something we could buy for, erm..." Heinrich searched his pockets and counted the money he found, laughing nervously as he realized how little he had left, "for, well, seven coppers?"

"Just give me a moment, sir, I'll find you something right away!"

"What about those?" Ernst said, gesturing toward a large bouquet of bright red flowers. Heinrich looked at the shopkeeper in astonishment.

"You have some stockes even at this time of the year?" he said. He observed the flowers with a knowing eye. "Isn't it a bit early for them to be in bloom?"

The old man barked out a laugh. "Why, yes, but these ones weren't the patient kind, it seems!" He peered closely at Heinrich's face, his face lightening up in recognition. "Why! You're the young fella who comes to my shop every year, aren't you? You and your little lad!" He gave a brief salute to Ernst who tipped his cap in response. "And you've brought your daughter this year too! What an adorable little miss!"

Heinrich realized his cheeks were heating up. "They're not my children," he said, perhaps a bit too brusquely. "I'm just their uncle, nothing more."

"Is that so?" the shopkeeper said. "You don't have to be so flustered about this, son. Don't mind a poor old man's nosiness, now!"

"Mister, how much for the red stockes?" Ernst asked again. He was watching Heinrich with a inquisitive expression. "I remember you saying you like stockes a lot, don't you, Uncle Heinrich?"

"Why?" a puzzled Eruca said. "What's so special about them?"

Heinrich crossed his arms. "Nothing in particular, in fact. People usually appreciate their smell and how easy they are to grow." He felt his embarrassment growing as the children turned to stare at him as though they expected him to continue. "And you shouldn't use stockes to express gratitude. Bluebells would be more suiting, I think."

"What's the meaning of stockes then?"

"Depends on the colour. White stockes mean compassion. Yellow stockes are associated with a lonely, unrequited love. And red stockes are my favourite because—" Heinrich stopped, suddenly realizing that he sounded like the worst of sappy idiots. His cheeks turned scarlet.

"Oh, Uncle Heinrich, you do have a sweeter side!" Eruca said. Heinrich was surprised that Ernst had not yet started to snicker at this disgustingly sentimental display.

"Here, I still had a couple of bluebells in the back," the shopkeeper said. He handed the violet-blue flowers to Ernst. Heinrich silently thanked the man for his impeccable timing.

"If you add the stockes, how much that would be?" Ernst asked the shopkeeper.

"It'd be a bit more expensive than what you have, but I can make you a price," the shopkeeper replied. "After all, you have been a faithful customer for many years. Take it as a gift from one lover of flowers to another."

Heinrich was rather puzzled. "Why would you do that, nephew? For whom—?"

"For you, idiot!" Ernst said with a roll of the eyes. "To thank you for taking us out to the Festival! Right, Ruca?"

"But, Ernst—"

"No buts! Sheesh, it's just flowers, stop making such a fuss about it." There was a slight flush to Ernst's cheeks too.

It was with a horrifyingly awkward smile that Heinrich paid the shopkeeper and took the other bouquet from his hands. Afterwards, they all left the shop, the children giving the old man a cheerful goodbye while Heinrich gingerly waved his hand.

"So, where should we go now?" Eruca asked as they lost themselves in the crowd again. Heinrich glanced to the orange sky above, finally realizing just how his feet had started to ache.

"We should rest a bit before going back to the castle," Heinrich said. "We have a long trip ahead of us after all."

"What about this fountain?" Ernst suggested. "Look, there's no one sitting there."

Indeed, there was a beautifully decorated fountain not far away. In three strides they had reached the fountain's rim, and Heinrich and Ernst plopped down on the cold marble, both of them yawning loudly. Nearby, an old man was throwing some bread crumbs at pigeons. Eruca looked at him with both puzzlement and wonder. It suddenly struck Heinrich that the girl, having never set foot outside the castle, had never seen a sight as mundane as someone feeding stray birds.

"Um, Uncle, can I give the birds some cookie crumbs too?" she asked, hopping daintily from one foot to another.

"Of course you can, child. Just stay within sight of me, alright?"

"I will! Thank you, Uncle Heinrich!"

Eruca sauntered toward the old man and his birds, leaving Heinrich and Ernst to sit alone at the fountain. The boy watched his sister throw some pieces of cookie at the pigeons with distracted eyes.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Ernst finally said. "Every time we sneak out to the city, people always think we're father and son."

Heinrich shrugged. "Of course. Children are usually accompanied by their parents. It's a logical assumption."

A graceless snort came out of Ernst's nose. " _Hah!_ Can you see Father going out to the Midsummer Festival with us like that?" His tone was unusually bitter.

The mention of his brother dampened Heinrich's mood, and he sighed as he contemplated the bouquet of red stockes in his hands. The memory of Victor and his knife flashed in front of his eyes, and he could almost feel the old scar twinging in remembered pain. The two were silent for a few seconds before Ernst spoke up again.

"At least you're here. It's much better being with you than being with _him_." The amount of venom he had put into that last word was staggering. Ernst paused, his frown dissipating, gently replaced by a smile he directed toward Heinrich. "Really, I'm happy we got you."

Heinrich's cheeks began to heat up yet again, and he fidgeted in his seat, his eyes briskly evading the boy's gaze. He prayed fervently that Ernst would just stop with the mushy compliments.

"It really is your favourite flower, isn't it?" Ernst eventually said, possibly noticing his uncle's uneasiness.

"Perhaps, I really can't say," Heinrich answered, secretly relieved (although he was still wondering why it was so important for Ernst to know what his favourite flower was). "In truth, I'm rather fond of orange lilies. And hydrangeas and primroses, too." A wave of melancholy swept over him as a half-remembered thought came to him. "In fact, if I had a daughter, I would have probably named her Primrose."

Ernst stayed quiet at this admission. "If you ever have a son, what would you call him?"

Heinrich glanced down at his nephew, finding the boy staring back. Ernst's expression was unreadable. There was something in his eyes—a bit of sadness or anxiety perhaps, mixed with a touch of longing?

"I've never put much thought into that question, to be honest. Perhaps I would have named him Stocke," Heinrich replied with a bewildered smile, still searching his nephew's features for a clue explaining his peculiar behaviour. "But that's neither here nor there. I already know I will never have children."

Heinrich observed the boy's reaction. As Ernst still looked a bit forlorn, he added, tongue firmly planted in cheek, "Really, why would I? Being a parent seems quite troublesome. Truly, I can't see why anyone would want to have children: they waste all of your money on cookies, cheat when you spar with them, jump in your bed at ungodly hours in the morning—"

"Hey! I've never done that!"

"Yes, you did, when you were six. It was your birthday and—"

"That doesn't count! I was just a kid!"

"But you _still_ are a—" Heinrich began, only to stop abruptly as he gazed to where Eruca was. Or rather, gazed to where Eruca _should have been_.

"Oh, god!" Heinrich cried out as he jumped to his feet. _"Eruca! Where is she?!_ "

"Wha—? She's gone!" Ernst jolted from his seat. "She was here just a moment ago!"

Heinrich rushed into the swarm of people that surrounded the fountain, closely followed by Ernst. To his great relief, his eyes soon caught a flash of gold not far away. Near one of the walls that encircled the city, there was a pig-tailed girl talking to a dirty-looking man wearing a cloak.

 _"Eruca!_ " Heinrich shouted as he ran toward his niece, cutting through the crowd. She turned to face him and immediately her expression grew fearful as he grabbed her forcefully by the arm.

"I told you to stay nearby, Eruca! We could have lost you! You can't just go wandering around! Someone could have tried to hurt you!" A couple of bystanders watched them warily as Heinrich's voice grew louder and louder.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Heinrich," Eruca said, tears welling up in her eyes, "but this mister here, he asked if I had some money and then he said he was hungry and—" She quickly fell silent as Heinrich felt his face heat up in anger.

"Please, forgive your little niece, sir, she just wanted to help me," said the beggar. Heinrich glared daggers at the man before swiftly turning around as he heard the sound of someone rummaging through a bag.

"I'm sorry, sir," Ernst began, "I don't have anything but cookies, but—"

"Ernst!" Heinrich glowered at his nephew. "Don't come near him! He's filthy!" He thrust the red stockes in Ernst's arms and seized his hand, still clutching Eruca behind him. "Let's go back. Night will fall soon."

The two children meekly followed him as he led them through the streets. As they arrived downtown, Ernst swallowed nervously. "What was wrong with that man? He seemed sick."

Eruca also contemplated her uncle with inquisitive eyes. "He told me he didn't have a home. How can someone not have a home?"

Heinrich's scowl grew meaner. "Who knows? He might be some idiot who squandered all of his money or a deserter fleeing from the law or even a thief trying to trick you. Perhaps he was a refugee or—"

"A refugee?" Ernst asked. "What's a refugee?"

Heinrich tutted loudly. "Someone who lost their home because of the war. There are a lot of them camping outside the city walls, waiting for an authorization to enter the capital."

"Why can't they—?"

"I don't want to talk about this," Heinrich said bluntly. "I'm tired. If you want to, you can ask me later, but not now." His mind kept replaying the previous events in an horrific loop.

When they reached the castle gate, the colour of the sky had deepened to a dark blue, and there was a certain chill in the air. Heinrich closed his eyes and tried to pick the thin thread of Mana that flowed deep inside him. It was completely useless; every time he managed to pluck that tiny string of Mana, it just escaped his grasp again.

He cursed under his breath. "I can't cast my Vanish spell," he told the children. "We will have to find another way inside the castle."

Ernst and Eruca exchanged worried gazes. "There are some secret passages that lead inside, right?" said Ernst. "Do you know where they might be?"

Heinrich pushed his glasses up his nose. "As a matter of fact, I do. Although, I do hope you don't mind a trip through the sewers of the city."

As troubled as he still was, he could not help but find the look of pure horror they gave him deliciously entertaining.

* * *

An hour later, after trudging through the tortuous maze of the sewers and braving the stench and the filth, they ended safely within the castle walls. The three of them managed to get to Eruca's chambers without anyone noticing, and Heinrich put his niece—who was already dozing off in his arms—to bed. When they arrived to Ernst's room, the boy insisted that he did not feel tired at all. Heinrich snorted. After the initial excitement of passing through one of the castle's secret passages for the first time had worn off, Ernst had looked like he would fall asleep on the spot at any moment.

"I don't wanna go to bed," Ernst protested as he handed the stockes and bluebells to Heinrich. "I'm older than Ruca, I should go to bed after she does." He punctuated that last word with a long yawn.

Heinrich's fingers twitched as he felt the sudden desire to ruffle his nephew's golden hair. Instead, he only glanced down at the boy with a soft half-smile. "This is already well over your bedtime, young man," he said. "If your father knew I took the two of you out of the castle at this hour, he would have my head."

"Mm, if you say so... g'night, Uncle."

"Good night, my boy," Heinrich answered, turning away from his nephew to leave for his own chambers.

From behind, Heinrich heard soft footfalls and the flutter of a cape. He stopped in his tracks.

"Ernst...?" Heinrich began, shifting on his heel to face the boy.

At the other end of the corridor, a few steps away from Ernst, he could see a cloaked figure standing still, blade in hand. Heinrich felt his eyes slowly widening.

There was a weak, strangled cry of surprise from Ernst... and then the stranger dashed toward the two of them.

 _"Ernst!_ " Heinrich shouted as the knife slowly rose above Ernst's startled face, its blade gleaming red in the light of the flickering torches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D


	4. Chapter 3 - The Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

_"ERNST!_ "

The child turned to run toward his uncle, raising a hand in a futile attempt to reach him, but the stranger grabbed him, stopping the boy in his tracks. Ernst let out a helpless yelp; the cloaked man was clutching his arm so tightly his fingers left red marks against the white skin. Heinrich could glimpse the knife hovering near his nephew's neck.

"The king," the stranger said in a rasp, "the king, take me to the king." The voice was uneven, touched with a worrying note of hysteria.

"U-Uncle," Ernst whimpered.

"Oh, god," Heinrich croaked, feeling like he had been suddenly doused in ice-cold water, "please, don't..." He took an unsteady step forward and opened his mouth to say more, but the words seemed to stay stuck in his throat. The fingers that held the bouquets of stockes and bluebells loosened, and the flowers fell from his grasp, hitting the ground in a scatter of red and blue.

 _"The king,_ " the stranger repeated in a hiss that made Heinrich's skin crawl.

"I-I'll take you to him," he said, nearly choking on the lump that had settled in his throat. "Just, don't hurt the boy, please!"

With one last, wary look at the man, Heinrich made for his brother's chambers, quietly shadowed by the cloaked figure. The silence was occasionally broken by Ernst's soft sobs, and it took all of Heinrich's willpower to stop himself from lunging at the one responsible for these tears.

They soon reached the throne room where they stumbled upon a soldier who ran as quickly as he could to fetch the king. Heinrich's brother returned a short moment later, with an entire unit of knights at his heels.

"The king," the stranger said. His knife pressed against Ernst's skin, drawing blood. The boy let out a small whine, his terrified eyes never leaving his uncle.

Victor's anger was something to behold. "What is the meaning of this?" he thundered. "How _dare_ you threaten the crown prince?"

"If that's the only way I'll get you to listen to me," the cloaked man muttered, "then I'm willing to slaughter your entire family."

Victor wiped the sweat from his brow with a swat of the hand. "Then, speak! But don't think you'll get away with this!"

The cloaked man removed his hood, revealing a rather average looking middle-aged man who seemed eerily familiar to Heinrich. "I'm here to speak on behalf of the Granorgite people," he said, and Heinrich could hear that slightly insane note in his voice again, "the people you've left to starve and suffer and _die!"_

His cheeks were now glistening with tears. "M-My village was attacked by Alistellian raiders! They set everything to the torch and s-so many of us were killed! A-And we came to the capital, to seek asylum. But t-the guards kept us out of the city. _You've left us to starve outside the city walls!"_

The king's eyes were dark, hooded under his thick eyebrows. "Of course, we closed the gates to you, you idiot peasant." He approached the man, and there was a menacing gait to his steps. "Do you think we have the resources to allow just anyone into the city? The food shortage affects everyone in the kingdom. Do you have any idea how long we would last if I opened the city to all of your pesky rabble?"

The man began to sob heavily, and it struck Heinrich that he appeared completely oblivious to the king's words. The hand holding the knife began to shake. "But there _are_ hundreds of us! My son... oh, he was just a boy, and he caught a fever, and then _—ooowww, why, you little shit!_ "

The stranger's story came to an abrupt end, and Heinrich saw that Ernst had suddenly bit his captor's hand. The boy broke free from the man's grasp, while the latter shouted obscenities from behind.

 _"Ernst!_ " Heinrich screeched as he ran toward his nephew. Before he could reach the boy, he was roughly pushed out of the way by a guard rushing to Ernst's side. Heinrich fell to the floor, his head colliding violently with the ground. Somewhere in the distance a high-pitched scream pierced the vastness of the throne room.

"Don't let him go!" a voice said. "Kill him, _kill him!"_

Heinrich's head was heavy and painful, and he tried to get to his feet, only to fall to his knees again in the process. He could only see blurry shapes, and his ears were ringing loudly, so loudly in fact that he could barely make out the words of the screeches that assaulted his eardrums.

"Oh, god!" another voice cried out, "he's bleeding! The prince is injured!"

 _What did he just say?_ Heinrich thought, his heart nearly stopping in shock. To his right, he recognized his brother's voice bellowing an order, and he caught sight of what seemed like a group of guards running in the direction where the king was pointing. To his left, a couple of knights were huddled up around something lying on the ground. _No... it couldn't be..._

"Don't move him! We must wait for the healers!"

" _Hurry!_ He's losing blood very fast!"

Heinrich staggered toward the group of panicking guards, seeing over their shoulders the child's small, still figure. There was a dark, rapidly growing stain on his back and next to him, a bloodied knife lay on the ground.

 _"My son!"_ Victor's voice suddenly flared next to Heinrich's ear, and he saw the guards fearfully make way for the king to approach the boy. "Where are the healers? Where are they?!"

A few healers mercifully arrived in the throne room as the king shouted these words. Heinrich was bluntly relegated to the sidelines as they fluttered to Ernst's motionless form.

"Give me something to stop the bleeding, quickly!" their leader commanded. His hands shone a bright green on as he tried to seal the open wound on Ernst's back with a healing spell.

"Oh, god, he's lost so much blood already!" said another healer.

Heinrich felt like his feet were rooted to the ground. He was aware that his mouth was open, almost as if he wanted to say something, but his throat was so parched it could not make a sound. And for some unknown reason, his brain was still doubting the information sent by his eyes and ears. Not long ago, the boy had been whining about bedtime, how could he be lying in his own blood at the moment? It made absolutely no sense.

The head medic seemed to be getting more frantic by the second. "It's not use... w-we're losing him..."

Heinrich could feel his fingernails digging in his palms. His head was disturbingly blank.

A few excruciatingly slow minutes passed. Finally, the head medic let out a soft, choking sound.

"I-I can't feel his pulse anymore," he said in a rattled voice. His colleagues looked at Ernst's small, still form with vacant expressions. Heinrich did the same, a heavy, invisible weight slowly settling on his shoulders.

 _"What did you say?"_ Victor's guttural voice erupted, and suddenly he was looming over the head medic. The man met the king's gaze, his own stare blank with horror. _"Did you just say that my son is dead?"_

"Your Majesty," the head medic began in a panic-stricken whisper, only to be cut off as the king's fist came down to strike him. There was a sound of distress from his subordinates as the man fell like a stone.

Heinrich only stared with hollow eyes as his brother started to kick the man in the ribs, ruthlessly ignoring his agonized cries. There were screams from the surrounding healers and guardsmen—and suddenly the air around Victor began to crackle and the atmosphere became so charged with magical energy that Heinrich felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. In his rage, the king was summoning their bloodline's innate powers. Heinrich could not tear his gaze away from the man writhing in pain on the ground, and he only saw his brother being engulfed by the light of his spell casting from the very corner of his eye. The healer burst out in loud, terrified sobs and his cries turned into bloodcurdling screams as the king's fire spell exploded in his face.

His inhuman screeches resonated in the throne room as the flames melted his skin, and soon the sounds were joined by the chaotic shrieks and wails of his subordinates. The guardsmen wavered from where they stood, torn between the oath they had pledged to the king and their desire to protect the man from him. Heinrich could only watch the scene, his body numb with disbelief. It was all so surreal, it had to be a nightmare. The screams tearing apart his eardrums, the man howling in pain, the stench of burned skin and hair, and worse of all, that tiny, tiny corpse—all of it _had_ to disappear once he'd woken from the twisted world his sick mind had created. If not... _if not_ —

Another flame flickering to life in Victor's hand, and Heinrich's brother opened his mouth to roar, but a group of guards finally made their move, pulling him away from the target of his wrath. Victor shouted and cursed and fought back, his eyes bulging out of their eye sockets. Even so, he was not strong enough to escape their grip, and they dragged him out of the throne room. The remaining healers and guardsmen looked at their retreating forms with silent, cowed gazes, the vast hollowness of the throne room still pierced by the sounds of Victor's wrath and the medic's screams of agony.

As soon as the king's bellows were out of earshot, a few healers ran to their superior's side to tend to his wounds. The man had finally passed out, and only a few moans now left his mouth. Heinrich made the mistake of stealing one glance at his face before one of the healer mages moved, blocking his view of the agonizing man. His features had become a mash of charred flesh and purulent, blistering skin.

Heinrich's eyes slowly drifted away, his mind still unable to process the current events. His leaden, aching feet started to drag him to where Ernst lay. From behind, he realized that the head medic had stopped making sounds altogether, and his ears caught instead a few soft sobs coming from the other healers. With lethargic, mechanical movements, Heinrich continued to put one foot in front of the other. He was strangely indifferent to the man's fate.

"I'm truly sorry, Your Highness," a healer still kneeling by Ernst's side said, bringing tearful eyes to meet Heinrich's own gaze. He hung over Ernst's inert body, contemplating the boy's bloodied form, now hearing only the painful sound of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. His gaze immediately went to the blue-green eyes he was so fond of; they were still wide open, still staring ahead—and now his breathing came to an abrupt stop and, without warning, Heinrich found himself falling, his legs growing suddenly and inexplicably weak, his head feeling light, so _light_ —

"Easy there!" a voice gasped as someone caught Heinrich's collapsing form.

"T-this can't be happening," the whispered words came out of Heinrich's mouth all on their own, "he's just a boy, that can't be... this can't be... not... not _Ernst_..."

"We should get Prince Heinrich out of here," someone cried out as Heinrich's body started to shudder uncontrollably. The next few minutes seemed like a blur to him: he was somehow vaguely aware of being carried somewhere, but other than that, his mind drew a blank. Next thing he knew, he was laying on something comfy and warm—his bed, most likely. He had been dressed in his night garments, and his vision was blurry; had someone removed his glasses?

"What should we do now?" a female voice asked in low tones.

"Our priority is to tend to the king," a man answered grimly. "I can't spare anyone to watch over Prince Heinrich. We should give him a sleeping draught for now."

"I... I..." Heinrich could hear himself respond. His eyes followed the healer's face. The man's mouth was moving rapidly, and a number of sounds were leaving his mouth, but Heinrich could not even begin to understand what he was saying. The woman scurried away from the bedchamber, and the man continued to talk to Heinrich, but for some reason his words seemed so irrelevant, so _insignificant_...

The woman returned, and together they coaxed Heinrich into drinking something thick and sickeningly sweet. Soon, his head felt very heavy.

"Your Highness," Heinrich found himself hearing, "we must take our leave to see to His Majesty. We'll come visit you on the morrow."

"I'm truly sorry," the woman said breathlessly, and out of the daze, Heinrich could glimpse them quickly bowing before they both darted out of the room.

Everything began to sway. Through his half-open eyes, Heinrich could see a green light pulsating somewhere in front of him. He tried to focus his gaze on the glow, raising a feeble arm to reach it; the light grew brighter and suddenly the world as he had always perceived it to be ceased to exist.

* * *

 _"Uhhh..._ "

A terrible pain palpitated in his temples with every heartbeat. Heinrich moaned, grabbing his head with an unsteady hand, feeling the throbbing of the blood under his fingertips. At least the ground was refreshingly cool to the touch. He pressed his burning cheek to the floor and his skin clung to the cold stone. A shiver went down his spine.

"Wake up," a child's voice called out.

 _I'd rather not_ , he thought. He had the feeling something awful had happened. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the comforting darkness of sleep.

"You must wake up, keeper of the White Chronicle," another child said, and his or her voice was softer than the other's.

It took him every ounce of strength in Heinrich's body to force his eyes open. Through the blur, he noticed that he was laying on tiles made of grey slate stone. Odd. The floor in his room was covered by a thick burgundy carpet.

"Where...?" Heinrich mumbled, rising to his feet shakily. He rubbed his weary eyes. A fog still enveloped everything.

"Welcome, Heinrich," one of the two voices said. "We were expecting you."

"Expecting... _me_...?" Heinrich said, his vision finally clearing. He took a few wobbly steps forward before coming to a halt, suddenly struck breathless by the sights that surrounded him.

In the distance, he could see what seemed to be stars glimmering in a never ending void. Here and there, platforms of grey slate were floating amidst the emptiness. A huge staircase flew over his head. A lamppost to his right was hung upside down, its light flickering dimly. Heinrich fell down in a disarray, his knees bumping painfully on the ground.

"What in the world...?" he murmured, his eyes darting back and forth madly.

"I understand this is a lot to take in at first," one of the two children said. The voice appeared to come from somewhere in front of him, and Heinrich slowly raised his gaze to find its owner.

On a platform floating ahead, two children were standing, their bearing solemn and austere. One was a boy with light brown hair and bright orange robes. The other was a frail-looking girl with pale hair; she was dressed in violet hues. The two children had long, pointy ears and although they looked young, something in the way they peered down at him made them seem much older. Heinrich squinted his eyes to discern the details of their faces, but their features just stayed blurry. Where had he put his glasses? And why was he only wearing a flimsy nightshirt that did nothing to protect him from the chill that seemed to permeate the very air of this place?

"A pair of children?" said Heinrich. "Who are you? Where am I?"

The violet-clad girl glanced at her companion, who gave a grave nod.

"I am Teo," he said, "and this is my twin sister, Lippti."

"My brother and I are the guardians of Historia," Lippti continued. "Historia is a dimension that exists out of time and space. It was created long ago by the rulers of the Empire through the power of Flux. It is accessible only to the wielders of the White Chronicle."

The pieces of the puzzles were slowly assembling themselves in Heinrich's mind. "Accessible only to the wielders of the Chronicle... does this means I have finally awakened its powers?"

Even with his faulty eyesight, he could still see the girl—Lippti—smiling slightly.

"Indeed, you have, Heinrich. Although, I do wish it had happened in better circumstances."

"Better circumstances?" Heinrich repeated in a strangled voice.

"I am sorry for your loss," Teo said softly, and with those words the memories all returned in a violent blur.

The knife in the darkness. The blood pooling on the floor. The screams, the stench, the face melted beyond recognition. And Ernst, cheerful little Ernst, who loved history and geography and fencing, who was so protective of the people he loved, whose hand had been so warm in his just a few hours ago, his little Ernst was—

Heinrich's gaze was firmly fixed on the slate floor beneath him, and yet he knew the twins were looking at him intently. With slow movements, he sat on the ground and hugged his knees, his nails digging in the fabric of his pants. A whimper came out of his mouth, and all of a sudden the dam had broken and he was sobbing heavily, his shoulders shaking with every sound that left his lips.

The twins contemplated his grief without saying a word, and Heinrich almost forgot their presence as the sobs tore away his body. He could not remember ever feeling anything of the sort, could not recall experiencing something that approached in any way the sorrow, the _despair_ even, that was currently seizing every aspect of his being. His hands now roamed his hair, and he scratched at his scalp furiously, the fingernails leaving angry, bloody gashes in their wake. Hundreds of crazed thoughts raced through his brain—but there was one, one that would not leave, the thought that he would gladly be stabbed by Victor a thousand times over if it meant not seeing Ernst's empty blue-green eyes ever again. He started to scream, imploring and begging and pleading for anything, for anyone to just erase the terrible image—the horrible sight of Ernst lying in his own blood—that now seemed permanently etched of the inside of his eyelids.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Heinrich gave one last, mournful exhalation, and his body stopped shuddering, his arms encircling his knees again.

"How could this happen...?" he murmured, "he's only ten... just a boy..." With great effort, Heinrich turned angry, red-rimmed eyes to Teo and Lippti. _"How could this happen?"_ he cried out, the words scraping at his aching throat.

The twins looked at each other. "Fate can be cruel," Teo said, "and sometimes it takes only a small pebble to set the flows of history in a completely different path."

Heinrich shook his head. "Different path...?" he repeated dimly as a new kind of strength, one fuelled by anger, coursed through his body. "What are you going on about? What does that have to do with anything? _What does that have to do with Ernst's death?!"_

"We can see bits and parts of the future," Lippti said. "In other possible futures beside this one, Ernst lived far longer."

 _"What?"_ Heinrich snarled. "What do you mean, other possible futures?"

"For the bearer of the White Chronicle..." Teo began.

"...the future is always in motion." his sister completed.

Gradually, the long hours spent listening to his father as the old man explained the history of their family floated back to the forefront of Heinrich's mind, "Because the Chronicle gives the Sacrifice powers over time itself." Heinrich passed his hands through his hair in a feverish manner. "Does it? Those time-travelling powers are not a myth?"

"They are central to the accomplishment of your duty, in truth," the girl twin calmly enunciated.

Heinrich's heart began to race. "So that means I can alter the past in order to have the future that I want!"

"Yes," Teo agreed, "although, you must use that ability sparingly. Some things cannot be changed and it falls to you to accept them. If you don't, the strain upon your mind would drive you to madness."

"So, there is something I could change in order to save Ernst's life?" Heinrich said. In his mind, he traced back the events behind Ernst's death in quick succession. All of a sudden, his gaze snapped back to where the twins were standing.

"That man!" he shouted, "the man who killed Ernst! I remember him! He was the beggar we met near the fountain!" It was all so clear now. "He must have followed us inside the castle when we took that secret passage. He heard me using Eruca and Ernst's real names! I'm the one who led him inside!"

Lippti tilted her head to the side. "Exactly. Now that you know this, can you save your nephew from his cruel fate?"

"Yes... _yes_..." Heinrich said avidly, "but _how?_ "

The twins exchanged a long look. Then they both disappeared in a flash of light.

" _No!_ " Heinrich screamed. He stood up, his gaze scurrying everywhere, his wobbly feet barely supporting his weight. To his great relief, the two children reappeared on another platform far away from his own. Heinrich ignored the sharp sting of pain in his legs to rush after them, running so fast he stumbled once or twice on the steep stairs that connected their platform to his own.

When he finally made it, there was another flicker of light and they reemerged, farther still. " _Wait!_ " Heinrich cried out between pained gasps. Again, he began to run blindly, his mind registering slugglishly the fact that the platform where he had once stood when he had first arrived to this mysterious place now appeared to be floating just over his head—upside-down. He pushed this useless detail out of his mind.

This game of cat-and-mouse went on for what felt like hours, and Heinrich, still dashing through the mazes of stairs and platforms, soon came to realize that his surroundings were beginning to change. Light was gradually filling the star-studded void, and the horizon of Historia was starting to look more like a sky on the cusp of twilight. Heinrich slowed down as he approached the end of the stairs, and he reached another platform, one that was larger and more meticulously decorated than the ones he had previously seen. An old book was lying open on the ground. With a slow reverence, Heinrich seized the White Chronicle, his fingers trembling as they caressed the yellowed paper of the pages that greeted him.

"Now, bearer of the White Book of Mana," he heard Lippti's voice saying, "what does the Chronicle tell you?"

The twins were now sitting on two columns on the edge of the platform. Heinrich's gaze left the two children, settling on the old pages of the Chronicle instead.

A rectangular notch, followed by thin line, was drawn on the first page. Under the notch, a few words were written with a careful hand.

_Heinrich and Ernst run into the crowd to find Eruca. They meet a vagrant who follows them back to the castle. The man kills Ernst, sending Heinrich in the throes of despair. The world is engulfed in sand as a distraught Heinrich forgets to do his duty._

"That's," Heinrich gasped, "that's... is it narrating my life? What does it mean, the world is engulfed in sand as I forget my duty?"

"The Chronicle sees what would happen if you continued through that course of history," Teo stated. "It seems the murder of Ernst would doom the world to an early death. Your nephew is quite important for the future... both yours and the entire world's."

"That notch you see at the beginning of the line is called a node," Lippti continued. "The Chronicle records the points in the timestream where it is possible for you to come back. You can use those nodes to alter the past as you see fit."

"I see," said Heinrich. His brain slowly took in all of this information. His eyes were swollen and painful, and his throat still ached from all the sobs and screams. He had little interest in knowing more than he needed to complete his task.

"We will talk about this later. I need to save Ernst now." Heinrich gazed at Lippti and Teo with eyes full of newfound hope and determination.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, a great noise ripped through the emptiness of Historia. Heinrich teared his eyes away from the twins and went slack-jawed with shock as he noticed a large staircase crossing the sunlit void, moving swiftly in his direction. With a loud _thud_ , it connected itself to the platform where Heinrich stood, and the young man fought to stay on his feet as the floor shook.

The twins turned to look at the staircase in front of him—no, Heinrich realized, they were gazing at the great gate that was erected at the end of the stairs. Heinrich understood immediately what he had to do. He looked down at the node, concentrating all of his attention on the words penned on the page, committing them to memory. Then, he started to climb the stairs at a breakneck pace, his mind consumed by one thought. _I'll save you!_

"Good luck on your journey," he heard Teo's voice calling from far away, and it was the last thing he was aware of as a blinding light cracked from behind the thick stone doors, robbing him of all sight.

* * *

"...that doesn't count! I was just a kid!" Ernst's voice floated to his ears. Heinrich yelped and tumbled out of his seat, landing painfully on his behind. The red stockes spilled out of the bouquet as he fell. From behind his glasses (how strange, he was wearing his glasses and his frock coat again) he scrutinized the boy's features, drinking up the sight of those bright golden locks and that pair of blue-green eyes staring back at him.

"O-oh, oh my god! _Ernst!_ " Heinrich cried out, his voice choking, "it's you... you really are..."

A group of passersby came to a halt nearby, whispering between themselves. Ernst stiffened as he watched Heinrich, apparently quite taken aback by his uncle's behaviour.

"What's wrong with you?" Ernst said, slightly recoiling. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I... you..."

For a few seconds, Heinrich could not find his voice. He just stared at the boy, mouth dangling open, and the desire to grab him and carry him back home where he could not be harmed crossed his mind. But then a horrifying thought raced back to his brain, and he jumped to his feet, startling Ernst even more.

 _"Eruca!_ " he shouted. "Ernst, we have to find your sister! She's in danger!"

Ernst nearly dropped the bluebells and the bag of cookies. "I-In danger?! W-what do you mean, in danger?!"

Heinrich only took the boy's hand and ran through the crowd, roughly pushing the people out of his way. Soon, his ears caught Eruca's soft voice.

"—they attacked your village?" he heard her say. "That's horrible!"

 _"Eruca!_ " Heinrich screamed. The girl turned to him, tensing in fright. Behind her, with a half-eaten cookie in hand, stood the man who had killed Ernst.

From the pit of his gut, Heinrich could feel a roar building up. The beggar stared at him blankly as the sound escaped Heinrich's mouth, and his eyes showed the barest hint of fear when Heinrich launched himself at him, his fist colliding violently with the man's jaw. Eruca shrieked, her voice echoed by a chorus of startled shouts coming from the surrounding onlookers.

"Uncle!" Ernst cried out. "What are you doing?!"

"This man has a knife! He was going to stab Eruca!" Heinrich yelled back. He grabbed the beggar by the collar, forcefully bringing him to his feet, and rummaged through his cloak, disregarding the man's weak protests. Heinrich's eyes widened as he found the item he was looking for. He threw the knife on the ground, and the crowd gave a collective gasp as the sight of the weapon.

"N-no, sir, please! I wasn't going to hurt your daughter, p-please believe me!"

Heinrich let out a growl that was almost feral. "Threatening the king's daughter is a crime punishable by death!" he snarled. There was another exclamation of the crowd at his words.

"T-The king's daughter? T-That's Princess Eruca?!" the beggar wheezed.

"What's going on, here?" a voice hollered from behind. Heinrich looked over his shoulder, feeling a savage smile tugging at his lips. Two city guards were running toward them.

"Guards! Help me!" he cried out. "I am Prince Heinrich, younger brother to your king. This felon tried to attack my poor niece, the king's daughter!"

"The king's brother?" said one of the two city guards. His eyes grew round with incredulity while his colleague pointed his blade at the vagrant's neck. "And Prince Ernst and Princess Eruca too! What are you all doing out of the castle?"

Heinrich swept a hand over his dirt covered frock coat before answering with feigned distress. "I was taking my nephew and niece out to the city for the Midsummer Festival, of course. The children had begged me to go." His gaze fell on Ernst's murderer, and he could not keep the viciousness out of his voice as he added, "And then this villain attempted to kill the poor child! Take this scum out of my sight! I can't bear to look at him anymore!"

"Yes, Your Highness!"

The two guards hauled the beggar by the arms under the people's hostile eyes.

"Off with his head!" a man suddenly shouted.

The crowd roared in approval.

"She's just a child! How horrible!"

"Coward! _Murderer!_ "

"Give him what he deserves!"

The vagrant stumbled backward—he suddenly appeared pitiful in his fright. His eyes frantically went from one direction to another, almost as if he was confused by the increasing number of strangers calling for his death.

"M-mercy, m-mercy, _please,_ " the man pleaded. But the people were relentless in their condemnations, unforgiving in their anger. _"Oh, p-please!"_

He tried to break free of the guards' grasp. Heinrich heard him giving one last, loud scream as the soldiers dragged him into the thick of the crowd.

Most of the onlookers followed the guardsmen as they escorted Ernst's would-be killer, and the ones who remained kept their distance from Heinrich and the children. Heinrich felt oddly grateful for their apparent thoughtfulness; the hand that he had used to punch the man was shaking like a leaf, and he was loath to have anyone see him in that state.

From out the corner of his eye, Heinrich could see Ernst putting his hands on his sister's shoulders. The poor girl was white as a ghost.

"Eruca!" Ernst said. "Ruca, are you all right?"

The young princess gave a barely perceptible nod. "W-was he really going to...?" Eruca said in a soft voice laden with fright. Her brother squeezed her shoulders protectively.

Heinrich took one, two steps toward his nephew and niece. As he reached their side, he fell to his knees, suddenly feeling weak and limp like a rag-doll.

"Uncle!" Ernst exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Heinrich just shook his head. Unshed tears stung his eyes, but he could not allow himself to cry in front of all the commoners; he was a member of the royal family of Granorg, after all. Instead, a strange sound, one that was in-between a laugh and a sob, escaped his mouth. Before the children could move, he reached forward, crushing the two of them into a tight embrace.

"Don't be afraid," Heinrich said. "It's all over... I won't let anyone hurt you ever again..."

With bloodshot eyes, Heinrich stared in the direction where the guards had carried the man to—at least Heinrich hoped—his death.

"Never again," and the two whispered words vanished in the air, the darkness that tinged them unnoticed by the two fearful children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D


	5. Chapter 4 - One Too Many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heinrich coughed into his handkerchief yet again, feeling like his lungs were going to soon follow suit. _Damn it! If this Prophet doesn't show up soon, I swear I'll—_

"That sounds pretty nasty," the man who stood next to him said cordially. "Maybe you oughta go see a healer to get that checked out?"

A few surrounding onlookers eyed Heinrich sympathetically as he looked at his ruined handkerchief with a scowl. He had the sudden wish to snap at the man; standing in this thick crowd for hours on end just to catch a glimpse of some foreign religious figure had begun to wear his patience thin.

Instead, Heinrich just took a deep breath and gave the man a rueful grin. "I'm quite fine, thank you. It's just that those Thaumachine fumes don't seem to agree with me. I'm not used to so much machinery." He added a dose of carefully calculated dim-wittedness to his expression, and the little girl next to the man—his daughter probably—echoed back his smile with a toothy grin of her own. "I'm from out of the city, you see."

"Oh, is that so? Is it your first time in the capital then?"

Heinrich's smile was so forced that the muscles of his face were almost hurting. "Yes, it is. I've never seen a city so big. And this crowd is quite something too. Is Noah Square always so full when the Prophet is giving a speech?"

"Always! I've seen all of 'em even since I was a lad and it's always as crowded as this!"

Heinrich fought back a snort. This Noah fellow was certainly more popular with his people than his brother was with his own.

"It's going to start any second now," the man continued. "Let's quiet down a bit."

The murmurs of the crowd were indeed dying down. Heinrich raised his gaze and squinted to see if someone had appeared on the balcony of Castle Alistel. When he'd first started to travel incognito upon awakening the powers of the White Chronicle, he had stopped wearing his glasses in public. Perhaps a prince of Granorg, son to the old king and brother to the new, could afford the extravagant price of a pair of spectacles, but a nameless, ordinary wanderer definitely could not.

Screwing his eyes, Heinrich stood on his tiptoes to get a better view. He soon distinguished the forms of two men standing on the balcony. Cheers swelled across the crowd, and the tallest of the pair raised a hand in greeting. The people gathered in Noah Square responded to his salutation with a surge of enthusiasm, the sounds of their exuberant shouts and applause growing so loud Heinrich felt them reverberate in his chest. Even though the way the crowd pressed into him made him beyond uncomfortable, Heinrich found himself grinning. _Victor would be furious if he knew!_

What followed was however so drab Heinrich soon felt his interest dim into nothingness. Perhaps the Prophet had once been a charismatic figure and talented speaker, but now it was clear that the years had caught up to him. His voice was so thin and weak that Heinrich could barely make out the words, and the bits and parts he did discern were either uninspired drivel about how they were God's chosen or long, tedious prayers asking His protection for the coming year.

Heinrich had all but fallen asleep in his spot when the Prophet stopped his mumbling some moments later. The crowd then erupted into cheers again, snapping him out of his daze. Heinrich's gaze went to the balcony. The tall, dark-skinned man who was accompanying the Prophet was approaching the railings, his hand raised to salute the masses.

The crowd welcomed the newcomer with increasing fervour. Heinrich wished he could see the man's features more clearly. _Is that General Hugo? The one they call the Prophet's Voice?_

"My dearest brothers and sisters," said the man—it probably _was_ General Hugo, Heinrich surmised, his deep voice sweeping over the distance as the entire crowd went deathly silent. "It is with great joy that I am allowed to stand at the side of our Blessed Father today."

Hugo paused, and the people gathered in Noah Square held their collective breath. The atmosphere was suddenly different—there'd been delight and a quiet reverence on every face while the Prophet had been giving his blessings, but now the air was taut, heavy with the promise of violence. Yet, it seemed it was not out of fear of the General; in fact, they gazed at him with an ardour that was disturbing to see.

"Along with His Holiness, I must express my most cordial wishes for the coming of this new year," General Hugo said. "But as auspicious as this day is, it is with great regret that I must tell you, my brothers and sisters, of the terrible ordeals God has presented us to test our faith."

Heinrich felt sweat pooling from under his bangs. Why was he so tense? And why had the crowd gone so eerily silent?

"To the west, the earth is withering and dying," the Prophet's Voice continued, and his words were met with a murmur of assent from the crowd, "and the wicked beings who call this dreadful land home, the ones who have endlessly oppressed our people, the ones who would have gladly exterminated us if not for the bravery of our Prophet, now covet everything we have toiled and spilt our blood for."

Heinrich swallowed nervously. _Granorg. He's speaking of us Granorgites._

"The people of Granorg have always turned their back on God, but His ever-watchful eyes have seen their heresy in all of its depravity. The death of the land is proof of that. Still, to escape God's just wrath, they now relentlessly assault our brothers and sisters of the farthest reaches of the realm."

It was not a murmur that went through the masses at these words, but a long, deep rumble filled with anger.

"Children of Noah!" Hugo suddenly shouted, startling Heinrich even more. On the balcony above, the General was shaking his fist at the heavens. "Evil has been born unto this land in the form of King Victor of Granorg! Those of his bloodline carry a taint, a disease of the mind instead of the body, one they have inherited from their ancestors, the Imperials who thought themselves gods until they were cast down for their pride."

The crowd's clamour grew in intensity. Heinrich stood very still, not quite believing his ears, almost fearful of hearing the rest.

"The time of judgement draws near! There is only one way to drive this evil away from our land!"

There were cries of 'death to the tyrant!' and 'destroy the heretics!' from the crowd.

"Yes!" the General's voice boomed, "yes, my children! We must destroy the ones who carry that blood and every single of their wretched followers! Only then will Alistel transform into the Promised Land our Blessed Father dreamed of when he escaped Granorg with God's chosen! Yes, only then, my children!"

A deafening roar rippled through the masses. Numb with shock, Heinrich looked from side to side. Obscenities and curses came from everywhere in the plaza, the Alistellians all but calling for the slaughter of his entire family. And the man who was next to him, the man who had so graciously enquired to his health earlier, was red-faced as he shouted _"Death to Granorg!_ " his once friendly features deformed by hate. The man's little girl repeated after him with childish enthusiasm. What was more horrifying was that she did not even appear to realize the dreadful nature of the words which were leaving her mouth.

Heinrich stared at her, and as her eyes met his, her face broke into a smile. It suddenly struck him that she was about Eruca's age. The thought left him cold for some reason.

* * *

"You have returned, Heinrich," Lippti said as Heinrich appeared in a burst of green light, landing softly on one of Historia's numerous floating platforms. "Did Alistel displease you that much?"

Heinrich arranged his cuffs, shooting her a sullen look.

"I always thought Victor was crazy whenever he raved about the evils of the Alistellians," he said, "but it seems they really are as mad as the stories made them to be. And by god, how they can manage to _breath?_ Those damn Thaumachines are releasing fumes everywhere! The stench is unbearable!"

Teo seemed lost in thought. "Thaumachines... the Alistellians appear to have forgotten the lessons left by the fall of the Empire. It might cause problems in the long run. Perhaps it will even end up accelerating the desertification rate."

A shiver crawled down Heinrich's spine. "Do the Thaumachines consume that much Mana?"

"Not with their current technology, no," replied Teo. "But in a few decades, they might drain Mana as efficiently as the machines of the Old Empire did. And then the world will be destroyed at a much quicker pace."

Heinrich winced. "Wonderful. How truly wonderful. In Alistel, scientists are creating machines that will eventually kill the continent while their Prophet's dog urges his people to kill my entire family. In Celestia and Forgia, the Beastkind refuse any contact with us. And in Granorg, my dearest brother—" Heinrich gave a dark, throaty laugh "—well, his solution to the impending destruction of the world is to murder me and then poor Eruca in a couple of years."

"Don't be such a pessimist, Heinrich," Lippti said. "All around the continent, many people are as worried about the desertification as you are. If you sought their help..."

"Why should I?" Heinrich snapped, "By all means, I shouldn't be giving a damn about this, since I'll be dead by the time it becomes a concern."

Silence fell. Heinrich felt the heat of the twins' stares on him.

"How long do I have to keep this going?" he spoke sharply. "How many times do I have to live through the same three years again?"

"Until your soul matures and you experience your spiritual awakening as a Sacrifice," Teo replied. It was probably the thirteenth time he had repeated this particular sentence.

Heinrich threw up his hands, furious at Teo's vague answer. "How am I supposed to experience my 'spiritual awakening'? I don't even know what a spiritual awakening is!"

Teo was as stone-faced as ever. At least Lippti seemed supportive. "I believe you are very near your awakening, Heinrich." she said. "You have already experienced something of the sort many years ago, after all. You have simply forgotten about it."

For a moment, the three of them did not utter a word. Finally, Lippti opened her mouth again.

"What do you intend to do, now, Heinrich? Do you want to go to the past again, or...?"

"I will, but not to travel again," Heinrich said curtly. "I'm tired. And technically, since those last repetitions I've done nothing but travel through the continent..." He stopped, counting the months through his head before adding, "I've been away from home for one year! Can you imagine it? I've spent one year reliving the same damn month over and over and _over_ again, only in different places, doing different things!"

"It's alright, Heinrich," Teo said. "Take the time to rest and see your family. You don't need to be so hasty in accomplishing your tasks as a Sacrifice. You have all the time in the world."

Heinrich gazed at the pointy-eared boy, his eyes growing cold. "Do I? The more I see it, the more I realize my time is quickly running out."

* * *

Heinrich blinked. As always, it took him some moments to realize he had just come back from a trip to Historia. He blinked again as he slowly started to recognize his surroundings. Apparently, this particular node took him back to his bedroom in Castle Granorg. How strange. He had completely forgotten.

Heinrich searched through his bag for his glasses and, as he pushed them back on his nose, the burgundy blur above him cleared, showing the familiar pattern of his bed canopy. He rummaged through his bag again, this time grabbing the White Chronicle. He raised it above his head, reading the words penned under the node he had just taken.

_Approximately one year away from the date of the Ritual, Heinrich sets out on a journey to see the world._

He sighed, and the words started to rearrange themselves on the page.

_Approximately one year away from the date of the Ritual, Heinrich sets out on a journey to see the world, but ultimately decides to stay in Granorg with his family._

His eyes swept across the bedchamber. The room was as immaculate as he had left it one year ago—or rather, in the few moments he was truly gone. Heinrich groaned. Keeping track of time had become quite impossible since he had acquired the White Chronicle so many years ago (although chronologically speaking, it had only been two years).

 _"Ugh!_ " Heinrich spat. It was all so confusing he nearly wanted to bash his head against the wall.

Not for the first time he wished Victor had been the one to carry out this loathsome task, especially since he appeared to be doing a rather poor job at his own duties. Everywhere in the realm, the commoners were worrying themselves raw about yet another terrible harvest. Meanwhile, the king's excesses still managed to grow, adding to the citizens' anger. And as the war went on, more and more refugees sought asylum in the capital, only to find themselves being brusquely turned away at the city gates. Some of them had even begun a dangerous trek through the desert to reach the southern city-state of Cygnus. Heinrich had been shocked by this; just how desperate had these people become?

Heinrich sighed again. It was idiotic of him to dwell on such things. Daydreams where he ascended to the throne instead of Victor had come quite often when he had been younger and far more naive, but now he knew how foolish it was to waste time being lost in such fancies.

He rose from his bed, walking to his table to empty the rest of his bag. Along with the Chronicle, he had also brought a few books and a number of maps along for his trips. And hidden in a large pocket by the front, there was the knife he now always carried with him wherever he went. Memories of blood and empty blue-green eyes flashed in his mind as he contemplated the weapon. Never again, he had promised himself. He slid the weapon in his belt.

Heinrich took the White Chronicle in his hands once more. He had a feeling today was rather important. Why would the Chronicle put a node on this particular date? Not long afterward, Heinrich was taken out of his thoughts by the sound of a knock. Suddenly apprehensive, he steered himself toward the door.

It was Kristoffer, the valet his brother had assigned him some years ago when he had dismissed his previous one. As with most of the personal servants he had been given before, Heinrich did not trust the man; he had a feeling his brother used most the castle staff to spy on him.

"I have come to help you prepare for tonight's feast, Your Highness," said Kristoffer. As always, his voice was dry as sand.

"Feast? What feast?"

The words had barely left his mouth when Heinrich remembered the event in question.

"Damn it!" Heinrich hit his forehead with his palm. "Today is Ernst's birthday, isn't it?" He knew there was a reason why he always ran from the castle as soon as he could whenever he travelled back to that particular node.

The valet's ancient face was as inexpressive as ever. "It is, Your Highness. Shall we start the preparations now?" He glanced to Heinrich's thick, wild hair with evident disapproval. "I fear we have a lot of work ahead of us."

Heinrich grimaced. Well, he _had_ skipped the poor boy's birthday in every preceding timeline. He could very much endure the company of Victor and the parasites of his court this time for Ernst's sake now, could he?

"Alright," he grunted. "Do your worst."

* * *

Ernst was in a rather foul mood for his twelfth birthday.

The boy sat next to his father, but the king was more interested in one of the members of his court, a count named Gamlen, who also had the honour to be seated at the royal table today. The count was a distant relative of theirs who was in possession of some lands in the north-east. Watching Victor converse with the man, Heinrich was certain his brother had not invited him for a simple family reunion.

Accompanying the count were his four children. The two younger sons were of age with Ernst and they appeared as interesting as a piece of moulding cheese to Heinrich. The middle child was a pretty blonde young woman who laughed a little too loudly at everything Victor said. And the eldest was a red-haired youth whose face seemed stuck in a perpetual scowl. In contrast to his siblings, his eyes were shrewd, and the disdain he held toward the rest of his family was palpable. _An ambitious one, this boy..._ Heinrich wondered how long it would take before the count would be victim of a terrible _'accident_ ' that left the boy the sole heir of his father's lands.

Heinrich was seated a little farther from his brother, with Eruca sitting to his left. Separated from her brother, the girl had stayed mostly quiet for the entirety of the feast. She seemed unaware of the occasional glances her father and Gamlen gave her, nor did she notice how the count sometimes nudged his two younger sons to get them to interact with her. From the other end of the table, Ernst watched her with worried eyes. _Poor boy,_ Heinrich thought _. Has he realized what his father is planning for her?_

It was an efficient plan, Heinrich admitted bitterly. How very smart his brother was, making sure she'd produce a few offspring to serve as her eventual successors. Hell, she would probably end up married as soon as he could make her. Heinrich's hand clenched around his wine goblet. He had fought this fate tooth and nail, but the girl was far too sweet to do the same—and far too scared of her father.

"Pardon me, Father," Ernst suddenly said, standing from his seat, "may I be excused from this table?"

Victor and his cronies went silent, and soon even the rest of the dining hall quieted down. The king's eyes narrowed. "And where do intend to go, Prince Ernst? What issue would be pressing enough that you would abandon our guests?"

The boy gave an humourless smile.

"It's something I'd rather not tell, especially not in front of a lady. Let's just say I drank a little too much." He genuinely grinned at Gamlen's daughter, who giggled. There were a few laughs from the other tables.

Victor's cheeks coloured, and he sent his son away with a swat of the hand. The boy swiftly exited the dining hall, Eruca's mournful eyes following him all the way.

Thirty minutes passed, and Ernst did not return. By then, Heinrich had cleared the content of two or three more goblets of wine, and his head felt heavy and foggy. Victor laughed again, and Heinrich was so focused on the hatred that sound spawned in his heart he almost did not notice Eruca tugging at his sleeve.

"Ernst hasn't come back," she said. "Should we go look for him?"

Heinrich peered at his niece's worried face for a few seconds before rising from his chair and clearing his throat.

"Your Majesty," he said, "may we be excused? Your daughter doesn't feel well. I'll escort her back to her chambers."

"A servant can do that," Victor drawled.

Eruca quickly rose to her feet.

"Please, Father! I just want Uncle to read me a story before I go to sleep!"

The entire table snickered, and Heinrich looked down at the girl, glowering. She turned her face away, meekly blushing.

"Alright, alright," Victor said between a few guffaws, "I'll let your uncle go since he obviously is the only one that can perform this very important task." The table was drowned in chuckles yet again.

Heinrich swiftly turned away from the table and he walked out the dining hall with stiff movements, fighting to ignore the loathsome sounds of their laughter.

Out of the dining hall, Eruca pulled his sleeve again.

"Where do you think Brother went?"

Now that Victor was out of sight, Heinrich felt slightly better. "Same place he always goes when he's annoyed. The library." His nephew shared that with him. _He's like me_ , Heinrich thought all of a sudden. For some reason, this realization produced the strangest of feelings in his chest.

The two descended the stairs that led to the library and, as Heinrich predicted, they found Ernst sitting by the light of a candle, reading.

"You realize your father will not be pleased that you skipped the celebration he prepared for your birthday, don't you, my boy?"

Ernst turned to look at his uncle and sister, his expression growing sour.

"That wasn't a celebration for me," the boy said. "It was an occasion for Father to hatch another one of his plots. Didn't you see the way he kept talking with Count What's-his-face?"

"The count and his family were very nice, Ernst," Eruca admonished her brother.

Ernst scoffed. "Good that you like them so much, then, since they'll probably end up being your family too."

Eruca played with the hem of her dress. "You mean through an arranged marriage? Is that such a bad thing? I'm sure Count Gamlen's sons are fine gentlemen."

"Did you even _hear_ the way Father was talking about you? You might have been a piece of meat he was trying to sell off to that guy!" Ernst paused, and an haunted look passed in his eyes. "Father just wants to use you as much as he can before you—before I have to—" His voice broke, and he fell silent.

Heinrich's breath caught in his throat. _He knows about the Ritual? I've never told him! Did he figure it out on his own?_

"...before what?" Eruca said. She had begun to frown. "What are you talking about, Ernst?"

It took Ernst another few seconds to reply. "Before we have to perform the Ritual together."

"What do you mean, Ritual?" Eruca asked. Her tone was curious, but her face had become very pale all of a sudden

"It's something to stop the decline of Mana." Ernst said curtly, clearly not wanting to elaborate.

"The decline of Mana?"

Heinrich watched the scene unfold with an increasing sense of horror. _Where has he learned this? Why has he learned this?!_

"Yeah," a reluctant Ernst replied. "It's what causing the desertification. I've read it in a book. The Empire did something that upset the balance of Mana of the continent by using a force known as Flux. Since then, there's this huge desert that keeps growing."

"And the Ritual stops the desert from getting bigger?"

Ernst gazed ahead, pointedly not looking at his uncle or sister. "It does... and it's something that only our family can do—" The boy paused to gather his breath before ading bitterly "—by sacrificing one of our own each ten years or so."

"Oh," Eruca said simply, and now she was averting her eyes too.

Ernst fidgeted on his seat. "I was curious about the desertification, but they say nothing about how it's supposed to be stopped in the books I found. I thought maybe Father knew about it since he's the king, so I went to see him... but now I wished I hadn't asked him."

Eruca was very quiet. "Those ancestors of ours who were sacrificed," she said, cupping her hands in front of her. "Well, at least, they died saving the people they loved. That's a death I wouldn't mind having."

Heinrich winced. To hear such words coming from her mouth was horrifying, but the detached, mechanical tone she had used to say them was even more so.

 _"What?!_ " shouted Ernst. He jumped out of his chair to face his sister. "Ruca! Don't you dare say things like that! The Ritual is disgusting!" To Heinrich's horror, a few tears escaped Ernst's eyes, and the boy wiped them angrily. "When I'm king, I'll make it so it can't ever be used again and I'll find another way to stop the desertification!"

"But, Ernst, how—"

"I don't know, Eruca, _I don't know!_ " Ernst's eyes welled up again and this time he let the tears roll on his cheeks unopposed. _"Dammit_ , it's not fair! Y-You guys are both going to die, and there's nothing I can do about it! I hate it! _I hate it!_ I want to find another way... but there's no time! You'll both be dead by the time I become king! And Father just won't—and Father just _won't—!"_

Sobs began to rack his small body.

"Oh, Ernst," Eruca murmured. In a swift motion, she embraced her brother. Her shoulders began to shake too. "W-Will I really have to d-die? And y-you're going to be the one who is going to do it?"

Ernst did not answer. He only sniffed, his hands clenching behind Eruca's back.

A memory—one that was so horrible he had done everything in his power to forget—resurfaced in Heinrich's mind as the two children hugged each other. Only this time, it was Eruca's corpse that was lying on the floor while her brother wept, a bloody knife in hand.

Heinrich touched the place where his brother had stabbed him, his hand clutching the fabric of his waistcoat. He saw in his mind's eye an older Eruca, years after his death, doing the same, while her brother watched her with empty eyes. The image was more painful than the cold bite of the knife that had killed Heinrich, so long ago.

* * *

The door to Victor's room was slightly ajar, and Heinrich could hear the man conversing with a woman whose voice was vaguely familiar. There was a pair of soldiers stationed at the end of the corridor; they seemed to have little interest in what was going on in the king's room. Still, Heinrich patiently waited for them to look the other way before he exhaled, focusing his attention on the Mana that flowed within him. He soon felt the familiar tingling associated with the Vanish spell and he advanced quietly, pushing the door to enter his brother's chambers.

Neither Victor nor his female guest noticed him, and an invisible Heinrich walked almost lazily to where his brother was pouring himself a drink. The young woman sprawled in the bed—Count Gamlen's daughter, Heinrich noticed—was pouting like a child whose toy had been taken away.

"Come on!" she whined. "Come back to bed, it's cold in here!"

Victor gave an unintelligible grunt in response, before drinking the content of his glass in one shot. The young woman huffed and crossed her arms over her ample chest. "I thought that was for me," she said, yet again sulking.

Heinrich finally released his breath, sensing a prickle all over his body. Instantly, the girl shrieked loudly, clutching the bedsheets in an attempt to cover her modesty, while the king whirled around, sending his glass to the floor, where it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces.

"Hello, brother," Heinrich began pleasantly.

"What the—where did you just come from?" Victor's voice was betrayed by a note of anger—and panic.

Heinrich grinned, mildly amused.

"I walked through the door," he simply said. Heinrich took great care to adopt the slow, placid tone one would use with a child. "You left it open. You just didn't pay attention to me."

 _"You._ What do you want?" Victor rasped, venom dripping with every word.

"What the hell?!" the young woman screamed. "How did this creep get in here?!"

"Woman, _shut up!_ " the king yelled back, and the girl cowed at his rage.

Before Victor or Gamlen's daughter could say something again, Heinrich stepped forward.

"Brother, I'd like to speak to you of something important." He smiled at the young woman in the bed, and she hid her figure with a pillow. "I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn't know you two were hard at work trying to make me a new nephew or niece." Heinrich gave her a mocking bow. "I would very much like to speak to my brother alone, if you please."

A muscle twitched above one of Victor's eyebrows. "Go!" he barked to Gamlen's daughter. He threw her a dress that was laying on the floor. With a hateful glare, the young woman slipped into the garment and fled without even a glance backwards.

"Call off the guards standing nearby too," Heinrich said, the wine suddenly making him bold, "I'm tired of your people always spying on everything I do."

Surprisingly enough, Victor did as he was told. When he was back, Heinrich could not help but look at him with baffled amusement.

Victor sniffed the air. "Are you drunk?" he growled. "I won't accept such a conduct! You are the king's brother!"

"Bah! what if I took one goblet of wine too many? It won't make the things I want to say any more false!"

"So, what do you want?" said Victor. "What was so urgent you had to come to me at this hour? While drunk, for god's sake!"

Heinrich stopped grinning, now watching his brother with a cool, calculated stare.

"Ten years from now," he said, "I want you to sacrifice neither Ernst nor Eruca."

The king stayed silent for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

"And how would we stop the desertification, then?" said Victor. His mouth was still smiling although his eyes were not.

Heinrich held his brother's gaze. "Either you find a more permanent way to stop the decline of Mana, or..." He paused, his eyes narrowing into mere slits, "Or you offer yourself as Sacrifice to spare Eruca's life." Even the influence of the alcohol could not make his voice waver as he said this.

There was a loud bang as Victor slammed his hand on the table. "And then who would be king in my place? Surely not Ernst?" The king was smirking, but his tone was anything but jovial.

"Exactly. He is a bright child. I believe he will make an excellent king."

Victor's fingers drummed on the table. "Our political position is already precarious, what with those Alistellian upstarts always threatening to steal our lands. Do you really believe that it will turn out for the better in the future? That in ten years we should place on the throne an inexperienced brat to deal with those fanatics who think their God has given them permission to wipe out all of us?"

Heinrich knew firsthand his brother was right about the Alistellians, but he was not about to tell him that.

"Who do you think has kept those madmen away from Granorg?" Victor said, " _I_ did. Because of our grandfather's weakness, they've stolen lands from right under our noses, provinces that _rightfully_ belong to us. And have you forgotten about our great-grandfather? They _murdered_ him with their damn Thaumachines!" Victor tapped his chest. "Only _I_ have kept them from invading our lands. They've attacked us again and again in all the years I have been on the throne, but they never managed to advance any further into our borders. _I've_ kept them out of our lands _._ "

Heinrich stared into his brother's eyes, never blinking. Perhaps Victor was right, but he was past caring. "I think you are shamefully using these reasons as an excuse to live while you let one of your children die in your stead _._ " As Victor's last bits of surprise melted to anger, Heinrich added in a cool voice. "Besides, I'd say all the refugees from the border villages that were attacked by Alistellian raiders would disagree with your assessment. But I digress..."

"You little shit," Victor snarled. He advanced toward his brother with a violent scowl. "You keep your mouth shut or I'll—"

Heinrich eyed him scornfully, firmly standing his ground. "You can't do anything to me." Under Heinrich's layer of icy aloofness, years of pent-up rage were ready to erupt. "I am your _precious_ Sacrifice. If you kill me, you'll doom the kingdom."

Victor now stood inches away from his brother, his face hovering above Heinrich's. "You are not so irreplaceable," he stated through grit teeth. "If I kill you here, they are still two others who can easily take your place in the Ritual next year."

What happened afterwards came so fast Heinrich could barely comprehend the turn of events. One second he was staring blankly at his brother, and the other he was launching himself at the man with his dagger, the blade pointed at Victor's throat, his mind visualizing every possible way to inflict as much pain as possible.

For a fraction of a second that seemed like an eternity, Heinrich focused on the shock rippling across Victor's face, not seeing the king's large hand until it was too late. The blow sent Heinrich flying. His head swam for a moment, but he went to his feet far more quickly then he would have thought himself capable of. Heinrich's vision wavered. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and he saw that Victor had stumbled backward too. The king's face was frozen with fear.

 _"Guards!_ " Victor bellowed.

The fury that had exploded from within Heinrich was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was as though he was not aware of anything in the world but of the thousand ways he could hurt Victor. From far away, Heinrich could hear the clanking noise of men running in their armour, but the sounds did not stir him from this strange state. All of his senses focused on Victor. The king was grabbing the table tightly for support.

"Haven't thought this one through, have you, dear brother?" said Victor. "To be labelled a traitor for attempting to murder the king... such a dreadful way to go." His voice grew bolder with every word.

Heinrich tightened his grasp around the handle of the knife, his head still unusually empty save that deep-seated wish to _kill_. "Not as dreadful as yours," he said as he bolted toward the king.

Victor raised a feeble arm to strike down his brother, but his move was so slow Heinrich managed to crouch, evading the blow. The king stepped backward, letting out a scream as he stepped on a piece of glass. He collided with the table and his large form toppled over it. Victor's eyes widened in fear as he saw Heinrich lingering over him, knife in hand.

"Wait, stop—!" the king said, the words dying in his throat as Heinrich thrust the dagger in his neck. Victor's arms twitched for a few horrifying seconds while his younger brother buried the blade as deep as he could, watching his sibling's pale blue eyes jerking in every direction with a hollow expression. With every gasp Victor took, dark blood flowed from his wound, staining Heinrich's white gloves and his once pristine evening wear; soon, the king drew his last breath, his large body giving a massive, final shudder, a strange gurgling sound leaving his bloody mouth.

Heinrich contemplated his brother's corpse in silent shock, but there was no time to brood over the swarm of conflicting emotions that threatened to engulf him.

"There he is!" came a voice from behind.

Heinrich whirled around. A guard was running toward him. The man's sudden appearance shook him from his torpor. The guard's sword came down, and Heinrich's head would have been neatly cleaved in two had he not hastily sidestepped. The soldier raised his weapon again, and this time Heinrich knew there was no evading it. The cold hand of fear gripped his insides, and he remembered the feeling of a blade puncturing his flesh _—_

_I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to—_

Heinrich raised his hands in front of him, all of his thoughts converging on the flux of Mana inside him, every fibre of his being imagining the magical energy being converted into a flame. Instantly, a great ball of fire burst out of his palms, and Heinrich heard a bloodcurdling scream and smelled the stench of burned flesh and hair.

The soldier fell to the ground in a convoluted heap, holding his charred face as he howled in pain.

"Oh my god!" another voice shrieked. Heinrich turned on his feet, seeing another guard by the door. This one was younger, and he was looking at his colleague with pure, undiluted horror.

Heinrich lifted his hands again, taking advantage of the young man's startled fright to cast his spell. The boy met Heinrich's red gaze, and he took a step backward as he finally understood what Heinrich was doing; still, it was far too late and the fireball caught him squarely in the chest, sending him flying. He collided with the guards who stood behind him, and there were a few gasps of surprise and pain as they stumbled back.

Heinrich sprinted out of the room and in the direction of his chambers. Screwing his eyes shut, he took no notice of the guards shouting and running after him, instead forcing all of his attention on the Mana that remained in his body as he dashed blindly through the hallways. A wave of relief swept over him as he felt the familiar tingling, and he heard the soldiers crying out in shock behind him. He turned a corner and slowed his pace, his bloodied hand grasping his shirt as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

As soon as he was in his room, Heinrich staggered to his desk, opening the second drawer to grab the thick old book that lay inside. He ran his fingers on the pages, leaving a strain of red on the yellowed paper, and he promptly felt the strange, pulling sensation he now always associated with his trips to Historia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D
> 
> And a little aside for you guys: yes, that red-haired boy was Selvan. In Apocrypha!verse they tried to match him with baby!Eruca... as you see, he managed to 'convince' his father to leave her for his little bros instead. Selvan knew shipping him with Eruca was pure crack.


	6. Chapter 5 - Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

There was a burst of green light so bright it was almost painful, and with a gasp Heinrich raised his hands to his face to protect his eyes from the glare. He felt the soles of his boots touching the floor, but almost instantly his legs gave away under his weight. He cracked open his eyes; the ground was rapidly approaching...

Heinrich hit the grey slate running, one of his arms taking the brunt of the impact. A strangled scream escaped his mouth. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the terrible drumming of the blood in his temples. He felt like his head was going to soon split in two.

"Heinrich!" he heard a child's voice call out.

Heinrich tried to move his head to find the voice's owner, but something seemed to nail every inch of his body to the ground. And the floor was cold, so cold that soon a chill swiftly took hold of him. Heinrich started to shiver and his teeth chattered, his breathing getting faster and more erratic. And the blood went on _thump-thump-thump_ in his temples, almost as if it wanted to blurt out of his skull. His vision blurred, and darkness threatened to pull him in its embrace...

"Heinrich, stay with us!" another child pleaded.

The voice momentarily kept Heinrich grounded. With tremendous effort, he moved his arms to push himself off the floor and onto his knees. He blinked back tears, but the smell, the mixed stench of alcohol and something else, something more acrid and _unbearable_ , floated back to his nostrils. Through the tears, he saw his hands, his gloves stained red with— _oh god, what is this, what have I done?_

Immediately, Heinrich emptied the content of his stomach on the grey slate. His throat burned, almost as if someone had set his oesophagus on fire, and the putrid smell of the remains of his dinner came to join that of the alcohol and of—

He stumbled backwards, falling down on his rear. His eyes never left the terrible sight of his reddened hands. "Oh god, oh god, _oh god_ ," the words left Heinrich's mouth in a horrified whisper. He climbed onto his feet as quickly as he could. In response, his heart pumped so fast he was sure it was soon going to burst out of his chest; regardless of its efforts, he still sensed the blood draining from his face as his awareness began to dim.

 _"Heinrich!_ " Lippti cried out, her voice strained with worry.

Heinrich raised his eyes to the two columns where the girl and her brother sat, and the world swirled in front of him, dark spots appearing everywhere in his sight. His ears caught the faint sound of someone calling out his name as his knees buckled under him.

* * *

A terrible smell greeted Heinrich's nose as he came to his senses again. He opened his eyes a bit, immediately regretting the idea when the ache in his temples flared. And there was another, sharper pain on one side of his head; he gingerly touched the area in question, and he felt something sticky and warm on his fingers.

"You hit your head when you fell," a child's voice said.

Squinting, Heinrich tried to find where Lippti stood, but then a green light shone, and he squeezed his eyes shut again with a grunt. However, the pain of his wound was receding slowly.

"Lippti...?" he groaned. Through the slight opening of his eyes, he could now see that the girl and her brother were very near. They had never approached him so closely before.

"How do you feel?" Teo's voice echoed. "You were unconscious for a few moments. You've lost quite a fair amount of Mana, after all. Is there any place that hurt in particular?"

 _Everywhere_ , Heinrich wanted to answer, but he was certain the twins could do nothing about that particular hurdle. Still, he was more than grateful for Lippti's healing spell. His head wound seemed to be completely sealed now, and the twinge in his arm had stopped too.

"I've healed all that I can now," the girl said. "You should rest a bit for now."

Heinrich did not need her to tell him that; as soon as he closed his eyes again, he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep. Sometimes, he was startled out of his daze by the rasping sound of the air leaving his mouth, but he always slipped back into unconsciousness immediately afterwards.

Heinrich had no idea of the amount of time that had passed when he opened his eyes once more. The pain was dull and distant now, but even Lippti's spells and his brief rest could not wash away the prickly sense of disgust seeped deep within his skin.

The twins were back to their usual spots, on the two columns that stood on each side of the staircase that connected Historia to the real world. Heinrich lifted himself on his knees, feeling the weight of their stares on him.

"You killed your brother," Teo said, his voice barely hiding his disbelief. "And those guards too... you killed at least one of them without even batting an eyelash."

Nausea gripped Heinrich's stomach again. "I didn't mean to! I swear, I swear on my own life! It was just an accident!"

Teo and Lippti exchanged glances.

"You've buried a knife in your brother's throat by accident?" the pointy-eared boy said in a deadpan tone.

Heinrich began to grab fistfuls of his own hair, shaking his head feverishly.

"I... I..." Heinrich stumbled on the words. "Have you heard what he said?! He doesn't care about my death, or Eruca's, or even Ernst's for that matter. All the people in our family who have been sacrificed in the past... and all the people who _will_ be in the future..." He felt his face contort in anger. "He doesn't give a damn about any of them! He'll kill me, then wash his hands off of it and just go on to live his life as usual! Isn't that _hateful?!_ "

The twins remained silent.

"And besides, who cares if I kill him—or some random bystander—by accident? As soon as I use the White Chronicle to return to the past, all these lives will be restored, will they not? At the end of all of this, the one who'll end up dead is _me_. The only death that is truly necessary here is _mine_. All the timelines point to that one, single end. And the people will go on their merry way, living and dying and breeding as though nothing has happened. The war will continue, and people will still happily slaughter each other because of my idiotic paranoid brother and that other deluded imbecile in Alistel!"

As Heinrich spoke, the words intermingled with bouts of crazed laughter, but when his sentence came to an end, the chuckles dried in his throat and they turned to sobs.

"Heinrich," Lippti softly began, but she was cut off by her brother.

"Indeed, you can change the past to be as you see fit, but..." Teo paused, and there was no mistaking the disapprobation in his amber eyes, "you must remember that you will bear the weight of every timeline in which you pass through. The fact that your brother will live in the new history you will write will not erase the memory you have of his murder. It will not negate the satisfaction you felt as you saw his blood on your hands."

Lippti shot a disapproving look at her brother. The words sank slowly in Heinrich's mind, and he raised his hands to his face, studying the reddened gloves. The scent of blood and bile was getting more and more oppressing... he blinked to keep himself from crying, curling his blood-covered hands into tight fists. _Satisfaction...?_ Had he really felt joyful at committing such an act?

The answer came unbidden. _Yes..._ Yes, there had been a thrill in his heart when he had seen Victor breathing his last. It had been small and fleeting, but it had existed, if only for the length of a heartbeat.

The thought made his breath hitch, and horror washed over him once again. _I didn't mean to!_ Heinrich nearly screamed. He looked at the twins; he could now see that Lippti was frowning, her mouth pursed in disgust. _I'm not a murderer!_ he wanted to shout at her. He wanted to grab them both by the shoulders, to shake them, to wipe the disgust from their faces, but they just stared, their gazes silently condemning while he kneeled in front of them, his throat constricted by raw emotion.

* * *

Heinrich returned to the real world by using the same node as before. This time, when Kristoffer came to fetch him, he feigned being ill (it was not so hard of an act, after all - he could barely walk without wanting to puke everywhere), spending instead the entirety of the day hidden under his bedsheets. Sleep did not come to him easily, and when it did, it was filled with visions of fire, blood and knives illuminated by the faint glow of Mana crystals. Heinrich would then wake up, his sheets and clothes drenched with sweat, almost sure that Victor was soon going to erupt out of nowhere, ready to extract his vengeance with the swipe of a blade.

When the morning light crept through the curtains the next day, neither his body nor his mind were at rest. Once again, Heinrich found himself staring at the patterns of the drapes of his bed canopy. An idea that had started to grow within his mind during the long hours of the night came back to him, but he swat it out of his thoughts. Such a plan was far too dangerous... and far too _tempting_...

There were three soft knocks on the door. Heinrich snapped back to attention, recognizing the specific pattern of the sounds. He got out of bed, putting on a robe to go greet his visitor. Ernst was looking quite miserable, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy.

"Good morning, Uncle," the boy mumbled, "I know it's early and all, but, um, do you think we could go out to the city, today? I really could go for a change in scenery right now..."

Heinrich sighed. "I could too. Just wait a bit, I'll be along shortly."

Their trek out of the castle was unusually quiet. Ernst had recently begun to fuss whenever he had to hold Heinrich's hand under the cover of the Vanish spell (the boy said he was beginning to get too old for this, and Heinrich was inclined to agree), but this time, he just took it without a word. They crossed the entire city as quickly as they could, sneaking right under the guards' noses to get out of the capital. By the beginning of the afternoon, they had found a large tree on a abandoned farmland not far from the fortifications encircling the city. They sat under the old, leafless elm to eat a bit.

"Thanks for taking me out here," Ernst said. He took a bite out of his apple. "I feel better now."

Heinrich eyed him cautiously while he spread some cheese on a bit of bread. "Did something happen last night?"

The boy just chewed silently for a moment.

"Yeah. How could you tell?"

"Just a hunch that I had."

"I sneaked out of my birthday feast yesterday," Ernst explained. "Eruca ended up following me. Father was furious. He said it wasn't _proper_ to leave one's guests like that." He punctuated the last words with an affected huff.

"...but the thing that's really on your mind is the conversation you had with your sister last night, isn't it?" said Heinrich. "About what she will have to do ten years from now?"

Ernst looked at him, his mouth hanging open.

"How did you—?"

"I have my ways of knowing."

Ernst seemed to mull over this answer before he spoke again. "I see. Of course you know everything there is to know about the Ritual. I went to see Father a few days ago, and he told me the people who have to perform it usually have some strange powers as a result. Something about being able to travel through time." He glanced at his uncle, suddenly looking thoughtful. "Time travel... is that why you look older?"

Heinrich grimaced. "Older? Is it so noticeable?"

Ernst gave a wry grin. "I don't remember you having so many grey hairs before. And maybe it's just me, but your hairline looks like it's receding..."

"It's _not_ receding," Heinrich said, scowling.

Ernst chuckled a bit before his expression turned serious again.

"Father also said that the Sacrifices have their souls cut away from their bodies, and that it's sealed in some parallel dimension. While it's stuck there, the soulless body keeps accumulating Mana until it's full enough to seal the breach in the middle of the desert."

Heinrich removed some bread crumbs from his lap. "That's right."

"Without a soul, a body can't work, right? That's why the Caster gives half of their soul to the Sacrifice, after all. It's so their bodies can still function." Ernst frowned. "Does that mean you share a soul with...?" It seemed as if he was unable to say his father's name.

Goosebumps prickled Heinrich's skin at the boy's query, but he schooled his features into a mask of disinterest. "I do," he said, softly.

"Oh," Ernst simply said. He'd gone pale, as if he wanted to retch. "But you're still you, right?"

Heinrich opened his mouth to reply, but despite all of his efforts he could not utter a word. A faint, unpleasant buzz began to fill his head as he tried to find a suitable reply to such a question. Ernst, bless his little heart, seemed to sense Heinrich's growing distress. "Of course you're still you, Uncle," the boy said, in a somewhat assured manner. "I mean, you're _nothing_ like him."

Heinrich remained quiet. Ernst screwed up his face, and he nearly spat out his next words, "Dammit, this Ritual business, it's all so vile! It means Eruca will essentially be just be a resurrected corpse that's kept alive only so she can be killed again—o-oh, sorry, Uncle, I-I didn't mean to put it that way..."

Ernst's expression had become one of pure misery and horror.

"There's no need to apologize," Heinrich said, and even he was surprised at the monotonous quality of his voice. "That's what I am. A walking corpse. I can't even remember if my life was any different when I was alive."

"Don't say things like that! You're not a corpse!"

"If all goes according to your father's plan, in one year I will be."

 _"Stop it!_ " Ernst shouted, jumping to his feet. He stared down at Heinrich with eyes full of angry tears.

Heinrich winced. The words had came out all on their own. _I made Ernst cry again._ He felt his gaze harden. _No. This topic has made Ernst cry again._ Suddenly, he was seized with a mood much like the one that had came over him in Victor's chambers... and deep within him, something _snapped_.

"But that of course will only happen if I follow your father's orders. And I _won't_."

Ernst stared, blinking back his tears. "W-What? W-What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving Granorg. I won't let myself be killed by your father. And I'm taking along with me the means to accomplish the Ritual." Heinrich touched the White Chronicle, hidden as always in his bag. "That way, you won't have to kill your sister in ten years either."

He held Ernst's gaze. A cautious smile emerged on the boy's face. The abrupt change of mood made Heinrich feel very wary all of a sudden.

"Yeah! Why didn't I think of this? I mean, there must be another way to stop the desertification, right? If we find it, then nobody will have to die in the Ritual anymore!"

Heinrich just looked at the boy blankly. In truth, he hadn't thought of doing something of the kind; in his mind, such a task could only be given to someone who had the resources to pull it off—in other words, someone like Victor.

"Another way?" said Heinrich. It was hard to mask his uneasiness. "How could there be? It's been centuries since the fall of the Empire, and yet no one has found a permanent solution to the Mana breach in the middle of the continent."

He saw Ernst's grin slipping. "B-But if we don't find anything, what's going to happen? We can't let the desert grow!"

Cold horror swept over Heinrichs as he saw that smile disappear. "That doesn't mean there is no solution, my boy. I just meant that it hasn't been found _yet_. I'm sure there's something to be done. I'm sure _I'll_ find something." Heinrich hoped his nephew did not detect the hollowness in his words. _I don't want to do this. Why should it be me? I didn't choose this task,_ he kept thinking to himself. But he had to reassure the boy somehow.

Ernst grabbed Heinrich's hands in his own. His blue-green eyes locked with Heinrich's own gaze in an earnest plea.

"You have to take me with you! You have to take _both_ of us! Eruca and me! We'll help!"

"What?!" Heinrich sputtered. "No, I can't! Ernst, it would be too dangerous!"

Ernst bit his bottom lip. "I don't want to stay here, squashed under Father's thumb while people out there are dying because he doesn't want to lift a finger to help them! And I'm not letting Eruca alone with him. She's terrified of him! I want to help! I'm supposed to be the next king! How can I become a good leader if I already let people suffer now?"

 _No! This is a terrible idea!_ Heinrich nearly screamed at the boy. But just a look of those eyes was sufficient to destroy every bit of resolve he had left. The desire to have a life without the weight of his fate had plagued his every waking thought ever since his father had told him he was to be a Sacrifice, so many years ago. But there was something else he had always yearned for, something that his brother already possessed, something whose value Victor had never grasped... something that Ernst was now offering to him on a silver platter.

Heinrich squeezed Ernst's hands. _I have think about this one carefully..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D
> 
> (I really wanted to use the last line. Always a classic.)


	7. Chapter 6 - New Names, New Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The first time Heinrich tried to escape Granorg with the children, it ended in absolute disaster.

And yet his planning had been impeccable. He had found the perfect time, down to the very hour, to flee from the castle. He had memorized all the comings and goings of the patrols sent by his brother, marking in his mind every place where he needed the Vanish spell to escape their vigilance. He knew every road secure enough to travel, jotted down the locations of a few markets where he could easily steal some new provisions, and spotted a number of inns where they could stay without having the keepers prying into their affairs.

Heinrich had even altered their appearances: his usually thick and wild hair had been trimmed down, and he now sported long sideburns speckled with grey, while Eruca's beautiful blonde locks had been cut drastically short, much to her dismay. She and her brother also had their hair dyed a dull brown close to Heinrich's own colour, making it easier to pass them as his children. To the world, Eruca was now the youngest of his two sons, Matthiolus, while Ernst, for his part, had dubbed himself Stocke. For some strange reason, the boy had looked at his uncle expectantly when he had announced his new name, almost as if he had been hoping for some kind of reaction. Heinrich had just been thoroughly puzzled in response. Ernst's shoulders had then slumped down in apparent disappointment.

By the time they had reached the southern parts of the kingdom, every soul in the country seemed to know that the king's brother had kidnapped his nephew and niece. The farther they went from the capital, the more difficult it became to evade the guards' watchful gazes. To Heinrich's great irritation, no new nodes appeared in the pages of the Chronicle, forcing him to jump into every new course of action without having the means to second-guess his decision.

Their luck ran out somewhere east of the biggest city of the south. After much deliberation, Heinrich had chosen to head further into the wastelands, toward the independent city-states of the Cygnan region, rather than turn west to go to Alistel. Of course, then had come the decision to follow or not the long trail of Granorgite refugees crossing the desert to reach Cygnus. Heinrich had thought it better to keep away from the roads; the less people they met, the better their chances would be, after all.

But then two weeks passed, and Eruca was dying under a lonely desert tree, the life escaping from her tiny body with every painfully drawn breath, while Ernst grasped her hands, urging her to live.

They had gotten lost barely a few days after straying from the roads. Here, gone were the trees and shrubberies which names Heinrich had so lovingly memorized since his younger days—they had yielded to ugly bushes with dry, deadened twigs and an ocean of yellowed grass. Streams had gotten rarer and rarer, and by the beginning of the second week, they had started to run out of water.

Heinrich had equally distributed their meagre resources at first, but as they advanced in the wastelands, the nagging voice of doubt sprang up, so loud and persistent it buried all of Heinrich's other thoughts. Perhaps they were instead meant to go to Alistel? Or maybe it was his decision to avoid the roads that had led them astray. Worse, what if he had been mistaken in bringing the children with him in his flight? Were they really safer with him than in the castle?

His fevered thoughts had grown even foggier with the thirst and the hunger, making each step harder to take than the last. In the end, Heinrich had conceded to keep the better part of the supplies for himself. After all, as the bearer of the White Chronicle, his death would spell the end of the world.

Heinrich had been so focused on repeating this reasoning like a mantra, to keep out of his mind the image of Eruca's hollow, imploring eyes, that he had barely noticed the soft thud that had come from behind. Had Ernst not screamed, he would have never thought to turn to see the source of the sound. Eruca had collapsed in the sand, and as her brother rushed to gather her in his arms, she had started to tremble and weakly cry out for help.

Her agony had been long and arduous, and when at last a long, raspy wail left her parched lips, chilling Heinrich's blood in his veins, he had immediately reached for the White Chronicle rather than face Ernst's wrathful anguish.

Their other attempts were all equally unsuccessful. The second time, every moment Heinrich closed his eyes he was suddenly back in the desert—running in the dunes, desperately searching for a stream, a pond, a human settlement, any _damn_ source of water really, and then coming back to the tree where he had left the children, empty-handed, to face Ernst's resentful tears and Eruca's vacant gaze.

And so, driven mad by fatigue and grief, he had driven their little party right into a patrol's route barely a mile away from the capital.

The third time, Heinrich succeeded in leading them to the eastern parts of the country in an attempt to cross the Alistellian border—but as they passed through an abandoned Granorgite village, they were set upon by bandits. Fear had coursed through Heinrich's veins like ice cold water, and he had drawn his two daggers, blindly calling upon all the magical resources he had. When he had came to his senses again, a terrible stench had greeted his nose: the smell of burned skin and hair. Huddled up beneath a tree, faces bone-white with terror, were Ernst and Eruca. In the span of an instant, Heinrich had set three of the highwaymen on fire, before launching himself on the fourth. He could vaguely remember slashing wildly at the man to the sounds of the children's screams. For many long seconds Heinrich had remained still, watching Ernst and Eruca as they sobbed, only vaguely aware of the blood pouring from the wound that pierced his side. He had then barely managed to reach for the White Chronicle before darkness overtook him.

It took him several months to try another escape. The fourth and fifth attempts were thwarted by more soldiers, the latter iteration earning him a crossbow bolt through a leg. By the sixth, Heinrich's sideburns had gone completely grey, and when he'd sat down to cut Eruca's hair, he had grabbed the girl's golden locks so roughly she'd begun to sob and cry out in pain. By the seventh time, Ernst and Eruca's optimism had faded into nonexistence. While the idea of fleeing with their uncle had always made them anxious, now they were so fearful of their father's reprisal Heinrich almost had to drag them out of the capital by force. Could it be they still possessed some deep-rooted memories of the preceding timelines, he wondered? He had heard from Teo and Lippti that such things were possible.

The eighth, however, succeeded against all odds.

It must have been due to a combination of all the knowledge gained in their previous efforts, and of sheer dumb luck, Heinrich surmised. After leaving the southernmost city of the kingdom, they managed to covertly graft themselves to the rest of the refugees fleeing to Cygnus, untroubled by guards or bandits. Had he been a religious man, Heinrich would have called it a miracle.

The other travellers were wary of them at first, only warming up to Heinrich when they noticed his skills with a blade. They relegated him to the protection of the convoy along with the other adults who could handle themselves in a fight. In exchange, Ernst and Eruca could spend the rest of the journey in the cart of some impoverished merchant along with the man's family.

To Heinrich's deep relief, they reached the northern city-state of Skalla two months later without any incident. The city itself was small, with only a few rows of buildings made of clay bricks inside its thick walls. But outside the fortifications, hundreds of tents and run-down huts sprawled well into the wastelands.

It was in this mockery of a town that most of the refugees were forced to settle down. Jobs were scarce in Skalla, and Heinrich was aggravated to find that even with his royal education, little of what he actually knew could be used for a trade. Here, there was no need for someone well-versed in botany, history or politics. Skalla needed stonemasons, carpenters and smiths, to build lodgings for its new inhabitants—professions, in short, that Heinrich's tutors would have all sneered at. Of course, he could also have made use of his training as a spellcaster, but his above-average abilities would have instantly marked him as an oddity amongst the city's population, shady and diversified as he had found it to be.

So he had to turn to a skill he had found himself finely honing these past years: skewering people with the wrong end of a blade.

Heinrich's new job as a soldier for the city guard forced him to work in the southern part of Skalla, far away from the little hovel they now called home. To his great dismay, that meant leaving the children behind while he went to work every day. Already, they had been privy to realities he'd never wanted them to experience. Once, the three of them had woken up to one of the foulest, most abominable stenches Heinrich had ever been subjected to. He had crawled out of their little hut to find that someone had died nearby, and the children, already awake, had been watching a few men with thick gloves and masks loading his blotched corpse upon a cart. He had stared at their numb, almost disbelieving expressions with equal measures of horror and pity; suddenly, the thick and sizzling air of the desert seemed much colder than it had any right to be.

It was not surprising that those fears soon materialized in his nightmares.

Heinrich dreamed of daggers in the night, slitting Ernst's throat. He dreamed of disembodied hands clawing at Eruca, tearing her flesh apart and dragging her corpse under a pile of sand. And he dreamed of Victor bursting into their hut, his guards seizing the children while he would crush Heinrich's face with his hand, the king's palm heating up with a fire spell that would melt the metal of Heinrich's spectacles into his skin, and he would find himself screaming and screaming as his flesh burned...

 _Traitor, thief, coward_ , Victor's shade would whisper those hated words over and over again, and the last thing Heinrich would see would be his brother's eyes, flaring like blue flames in the darkening haze, his consciousness fading as his body turned to ashes that would then be lost into the desert _..._

* * *

This particular morning had started like all the others they had spent in their unfortunate new home, with Ernst poking his uncle in the ribs at the first crack of dawn to rouse him from sleep. After ingesting some foul grey sludge that could barely pass for food at Ernst's pleading (the boy had become such a worrier lately), Heinrich left the slums for the southern gate of Skalla, where his daily shifts usually began.

The sun had barely risen over the horizon when Heinrich finally reached his destination. As always, his string of nightmares had drained most of his energy, and so he dragged his steps along the way. His frequent bouts of fatigue had not endeared him to his new colleagues; one in particular, a slightly older man named Steffen, seemed to have grown to dislike him quite strongly.

"If you fall asleep on me again, I swear I'll gut you," were the man's welcoming words. Steffen's accent and light colouring marked him as another of the town's many Granorgite refugees, but the hard set to his jaw and the way his hand always seemed to hover constantly near his sword hinted that he was no peasant fleeing the drought.

"Good day to you too," Heinrich said, gathering all his energy to muster a pleasant tone. He had immediately recognized the older man as a potential threat because of his country of origin and background as either a soldier or mercenary. Heinrich knew he'd have to keep a constant eye on him from now on... and quite possibly devise a plan to get rid of him cleanly if the need ever came to be.

"Always so damn chipper," Steffen said. "I got this impression you always think something's funny about me." He closed the distance between Heinrich and himself, a muscle twitching over his left eye as he looked down at the former. "Do you?"

Heinrich flashed a grin. Ernst always scolded him whenever he tried to rile people up. Heinrich knew the boy was right in his reasoning, but since it was becoming one of his only pleasures in life as he grew older, he could never help himself.

"I would never," Heinrich said, still smiling ever so slightly.

He held Steffen's gaze, ignoring the little voice of reason (which, oddly enough, sounded like Ernst) that told him not to antagonize the other man so openly. Behind them, the other men of the garrison were whispering amongst themselves. Steffen bared his teeth, ready to reply, when suddenly a voice from behind cut him off.

"Is there something wrong, men?"

Heinrich and Steffen turned to see the man who had spoken. There, standing with his thick eyebrows furrowed, was their commanding officer, Sergeant Tomer. Steffen and the rest of the guardsmen snapped to attention, but Heinrich gave a far less enthusiastic salute.

"I need the two of you to be on your best behaviour today," said the Sergeant. "There's been reports of increased banditry south of here, and I can't waste any energy playing nanny today."

"Banditry?" said Steffen. "You mean those mercenaries led by that so-called Desert Lord?"

The Sergeant scoffed. "That man's no lord. Just some uppity slave slaughtering his way to the top. Still, he's well-liked enough by the rabble to be a problem for us. They all seem to believe he's some sort of revolutionary figure. Such nonsense. Still, we have to keep him out of our walls by any means necessary."

In three steps the Sergeant had moved over to Steffen and Heinrich, standing so close that the latter could see the man's spittle flying with each of his final words. "So stop your petty squabbling or so help me, I'll hand you over to the boys of the Desert Patrol!"

Heinrich heard Steffen grind his teeth next to him. The soldiers who had to venture into the desert were known to have drastically short lifespans. Heinrich was aware it was in some part due to the number of bandits roaming the wastelands, but he had also heard recent tales of beasts gone insane in the wilderness and attacking travellers. Heinrich frowned. What could prompt animals to develop such vicious streaks?

"Yessir!" Steffen said, suddenly docile. Heinrich repeated after him, still lost in thought. With distracted eyes, he watched the Sergeant leave. Heinrich's hand lingered to his side, patting the bag where he usually carried the Chronicle... and finding it oddly _empty_.

Immediately, Heinrich opened the bag to check its contents, only to find, to his horror, that the White Chronicle was not there.

The others seemed to have noticed his distress, and Heinrich could hear low chuckles and murmurs as he began to align a long streak of swears. Steffen muttered something that sounded quite derogatory, but Heinrich could not even find in himself the will to care about the man's rudeness.

 _Get a hold of yourself, you fool!_ Heinrich thought as he tried to steady his breath. _You must have forgotten it at home._ He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes. _The children. They know how important it is._ _They'll watch over it._

Heinrich exhaled through his nose. _Beside, perhaps I won't need it. Today might go without a hitch._

He mulled over this a bit, then grimaced. _Oh, hell. When did things_ ever _go without a hitch?_

* * *

To his great surprise, the rest of the day _did_ go by without any strange happening, and when the sun slowly started its descent, Heinrich's mind had become more preoccupied by the heat and the itchiness of his leather armour than his earlier oversight.

The other guardsmen at his post had been mostly silent for the day, only giving occasional grunts to communicate. And as far as he could see, the southern desert was calm, with no sign of bandits or savage beasts plotting their way into the city.

Heinrich observed the position of the sun, trying to guess what time it was. He squinted his eyes, looking westward. From what he could see without his glasses, a sandstorm was rising somewhere west of the city. Heinrich frowned, suddenly worried. Said sandstorm was approaching at an absurdidly fast pace...

Before Heinrich could make light of this new information, the trapdoor opened, revealing a young guardsman. He was red-faced and quite out of breath.

He was also obviously terrified out of his wits.

The young man crawled out of the trapdoor, trembling and almost sobbing; he was muttering so fast that no one could make out his words.

"Whoa, kid, calm down," said a guardsman named Marius. He was one of the rare Skallan-born men in their unit. "Keep it slow, what are you going on about?"

The boy ignored Marius, still stumbling on his words. He let out a few whines, catching the attention of a few civilians who gathered near the gatehouse, seemingly to get a better view of what was happening.

Two other soldiers finally helped the young man to his feet. All of his features were twisted into a grimace of pure terror.

"Western gate," he wheezed, "f-from the desert. A g-giant..." He gulped down. "A g-giant _s-spider_."

Everyone stared blankly at the young man for a few seconds, before the weight of his words finally seemed to settle in. Immediately, their cool composure cracked. The blood drained from their faces, and under Heinrich's bewildered eyes, they began to argue and shout. Only Heinrich remained silent and still, brows furrowing in confusion.

"A giant... _spider?_ " Heinrich repeated. He turned his gaze westward again. The cloud of sand had reached the outside of the city walls. He could also see something pale—something _enormous_ —within its midst.

 _That's no sandstorm_ , he realized dimly, eyes growing large.

The men let out inarticulate, strangled cries as they saw the creature emerge from the dust cloud and hurl its body into the western gate. From under his feet, Heinrich could feel the shock-wave of its assault, even though it was hundreds of paces away. The beast rammed into the wall again. Heinrich's breath caught in his throat as he saw the tiny figures of the people guarding the western gate dropping from the wall like flies.

The trapdoor slammed open again, and Sergeant Tomer came out, his face dripping wet with sweat. The ruckus died down, but only so slightly.

"What are you jokers all doing here?" he roared to subordinates, shutting them up for good. "This isn't the time to just stand there with your mouths dangling open! _Get moving!_ "

There was again the loud sound of stone cracking as the spider flung itself against the gate once more. The noise seemed to snap the rest of the squad out of their dazes, and they hurried to the trapdoor. Heinrich, for his part, could not even manage to move a finger, let alone an entire leg.

_Why is he sending us down there? Does he truly expect us to make a difference?_

Tomer grabbed Heinrich by the collar. "When I say 'get moving', that means _everyone_ ," the Sergeant growled. "So get to it!"

Heinrich wrestled from his grasp, taking a few uncertain steps backward, incapable of finding the words to talk back to the man. Finally, he turned and ran, jumping through the trapdoor to follow his fellow guardsmen.

* * *

It was chaos down in the city. Heinrich and the rest of his squad had to trudge through the crowd of fleeing citizens, and every time they heard the spider slamming its body against the wall, the panic grew, making their advance even harder.

They had managed to reach the heart of the city when Heinrich heard a explosive noise. He lifted his eyes, seeing rocks flying into the air. The people's screams intensified as the boulders fell down, crushing everything into their path. A thick cloud of dust rose above the western part of the fortifications—right where the gate could be found.

"It broke through," Heinrich murmured.

The soldiers and citizens stood gaping in the direction of the western gate. Heinrich looked over the rooftops, coughing as the dust rose into his nose—and he then spied long, yellow legs coming out of the smoke, climbing over the wreckage...

Heinrich felt like his feet were filling with lead as the people once again began to scream. Their bodies pressed against him, and he let himself be carried by the human wave, desperate to get anywhere but near that _thing_.

A hand roughly grabbed him, the fingers clutching his forearm like a vice.

"There's no time for philosophical contemplation, you imbecile!" Heinrich heard Sergeant Tomer shouting in his ear. "Move out, move out, _move out!_ " He dragged Heinrich away from the crowd, and the latter stumbled before his legs started to work properly again, carrying him towards the core of the danger against all his better judgement.

They finally glimpsed the creature only a moment later as they turned a corner, reaching the street that led to the western gate.

Heinrich felt his heart giving a jolt. It was enormous, dwarfing most of the buildings of the city. He was too far away to see its features clearly, but he could still spot the crimson splattered against its golden body. Behind the spider, Heinrich saw the remains of the gate, and even from this distance he could hear the survivors cry out for help from under the rubble. The ones who hadn't been so lucky were now nothing more than smudges of red under the rocks.

The remaining guardsmen raised long spears to keep the creature from advancing, while a few others stood on the fortifications and rooftops, shooting at its large back with bows and crossbows. Still, it seemed like a waste of effort to Heinrich. The arrows and bolts bounced off its skin for the most part, and when they did pierce it, it did not even appear to hamper the creature's progress.

The archers unleashed a new slew of arrows, but the spider just continued to thrash around, shrugging them off. Its fangs clicking furiously, the creature rushed forward, trampling the spear-wielding soldiers in its wake. The surviving guards lifted their weapons in a last ditch effort, piercing the monster from every side, before they found themselves impaled on the spider's long, lance-thin legs. The creature then flailed wildly, almost as it were giving a victory cry, and its crimson-stained mandibles scattered drops of fresh blood everywhere.

It turned its gaze straight ahead, looking at Heinrich and the remaining soldiers. With surprisingly steady movements, Sergeant Tomer drew his sword, prompting his subordinates to do the same.

"This is it, men. We have to keep that thing outta the city by any means. And if any of you make a goddamn run for it..." He shot Heinrich a murderous look as he said those words, "I swear I'll fetch your intestines through your throat and strangle you with them. Understood?"

As if on cue, the spider charged as the Sergeant completed his sentence. Its movements were erratic, and more often than not it crashed headlong into any obstacle it met in its path. With a gulp, Heinrich noticed it had not even tried to feed on any of the corpses it had left in its bloody trail. _It is_ _completely insane,_ he realized. _No animal would act like this in nature!_

As it drew closer, Heinrich found himself taking slow steps backward. _The Sergeant is mad,_ he thought. _Its range of attack is far longer than ours. We'll be dead before our swords even manage to scratch it!_

Letting out a curse, Heinrich leaped to a small alleyway to his right; he felt a rush of air behind him as one of the spider's legs landed on the spot where he had been standing only seconds prior. As he tumbled to the ground, he heard screams erupting from behind, the sounds accompanied by the disturbing noise of flesh being pierced and torn apart.

Heinrich stumbled back to his feet, giving one desperate glance backward. The members of his squad were either laying in bloody bits on the ground or crawling in the dirt, sobbing like children. In its jaws, the spider held Sergeant Tomer. Heinrich met the man's eyes, holding his gaze for a second that seemed to go on forever, then briskly turned his face away. A terrifying sound of something _snapping_ followed. Heinrich whimpered, and dragged his feet along the alleyway, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the creature.

 _North, go north, to the slums, to the Chronicle, to the children_ , his mind raved as he ran, meeting up with the crazed crowd once again. Heinrich pushed the people out of his way, his eyes still following what he could see of the beast's back as it towered over the buildings. _It's going north, oh no, please no, not the slums, please no_ _!_

Cursing under his breath, Heinrich picked up the pace. Going northward, he encountered more and more resistance as the people ran in the opposite direction. He glanced toward the monster again, and a weight settled in his gut as he saw the spider scaling a building, its blood-splattered legs going over the structure with obvious ease.

When he reached the road that led to the northern gate, Heinrich was out of breath, and almost certain he was soon going to either heave or faint. All of a sudden, he felt a _whoosh_ of air from behind; he stopped in his tracks, whirling on his heel only to find that the spider had jumped from atop the rooftops, landing right in the middle of the northern town square, in front of a group of terrified citizens.

Heinrich saw the flash of a blade as the dark-skinned young man at the head of the group drew a short sword, pointing it at the creature's eight-eyed gaze. Heinrich watched with mounting horror as the spider slowly advanced toward the boy.

 _There isn't anything you can do for them_ , Heinrich told himself. _Move!_ Still, he could not tear his eyes away. _Go find the White Chronicle and get the children out of here! Don't just stand there! You'll get killed!_

Heinrich ground his teeth together, cursing himself for what he was about to do. He raised his arms forward, squeezing his eyes shut. He searched deep within himself, capturing every ounce of Mana inside his body, forcing it in a tiny, invisible thread that stretched and stretched until it reached the beast's nightmarish face.

He released a roar as he was encased in the light of the spellcasting, and the Mana flowed from him, following the fuse he had drawn for it. The magical energy gathered and gathered, until the pressure was too much, and with another shout Heinrich called upon his magic again, sending a spark into the amassed Mana.

The explosion was stronger than he had predicted, and even from several paces away Heinrich felt the hot air rushing to his face. There were startled screams as the force of the flare sent the unfortunate civilians flat on the ground. Fortunately, the dark-skinned young man managed to stand quickly, and he limped towards the others to help them get on their feet.

Behind them, the spider was thrashing, a large part of its torso still aflame. Heinrich hesitated as he watched the creature burn, the more rational part of him still shouting that he should get away from here as fast as he could. He spied guards rushing towards the group of civilians, and sighed in relief. _You've done your part. Now leave, you absolute idiot!_

He spun on his feet, ready to start running again, only to stop when he heard someone shout from behind.

"Sir!" the voice said, "sir, please wait!"

Heinrich turned to face the one who had spoken. It was the dark-skinned young man who had foolishly tried to protect the other civilians. Only, from this distance Heinrich could now clearly see his features.

"A Satyros!" Heinrich said, staring at the young man's horns. The young Beastman's hair was short and glossy, and darker than the fur that covered his hooved legs.

"Sir, I need your help!" the Satyros said, ignoring Heinrich's slack-jawed astonishment. He grabbed Heinrich by the shoulders, his blue eyes boring into Heinrich's own gaze. "The beast seems to crave Mana. I might be able to do some damage with my magical traps, but only if we can lead it to them. Your spells leave a trace of Mana that might be enough to draw its attention!"

Heinrich had barely understood a word of what the Satyros was going on about, but he still had figured out enough to be wary.

"I'm _not_ going back to fight that thing."

The Satyros stared back, frowning.

"What? But aren't you part of the city guard?"

Heinrich opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by several new screams. Heinrich and the young man looked over their shoulders. The spider had stopped flailing, the fire having mostly gone out, and it had begun to move again, its blackened fangs slashing the air furiously. Its eyes appeared to have melted down; even so, it still appeared to know how to find its preys, as it was advancing toward the men guarding the group of injured civilians with slow, shaky steps.

"If we don't stop it here, it will tear its way through the slums," the Satyros boy said. "How many people do you think would end up losing their lives then?"

Heinrich drew his eyes away from the young man's face. _A lot._ A sense of righteous anger coursed through him, forcing his lips into a snarl. _Including Ernst and Eruca._

"We have to lure it away from the main road," Heinrich said to the young Satyros. He glanced to his right. "What about that empty street? Would one of your traps work there?"

The Satyros quickly evaluated the place in question.

"Yes. But it will take some time to cast. Until then, you must keep its attention off me."

Heinrich took his two blades in hand. "You say it has a taste for Mana? Luckily enough, I have plenty to spare." And giving a wry grin, he sprinted toward the creature.

The spider was only a few lengths away from the guardsmen and the civilians when Heinrich scurried behind it, hurling a small fireball on its abdomen. The spider came to a screeching halt, turning on itself to find the one who had attacked it. Its movements were now so slow Heinrich managed to launch another trail of flames across its side. The fire soon gave out, only leaving scorched marks on the golden body, but it was still enough to send the creature into a confused and ineffective rage.

The spider spun to face Heinrich, and it surged at him with a snarl. Heinrich yelped and jumped to the side, falling flat on his behind, his daggers dropping uselessly behind him.

"Oh, hell no," Heinrich whispered as the beast loomed over him, its fangs rushing down again. He quickly raised his hands, summoning his Mana once more.

The magical flare exploded right above Heinrich's head, the blow knocking the air out of his lungs, and scorching the creature's face as well as his own palms. He screamed, tears of pain blurring his eyesight. Still, he couldn't help but smirk as he realized the beast also appeared to be quite in agony.

"Sir!" Heinrich heard the Satyros boy's distant shouting, "sir, it's time!"

Heinrich crawled back to his feet, glancing to the empty road where the Satyros stood. In front of him, a bright blue magical circle shone.

Heinrich dashed toward the young man. His ears caught the sound of the beast's mandibles clicking, and soon he had the horrible realization that the spider was indeed chasing after him.

Heinrich fought back his dizziness, his mind focused on only one thought: that he had to reach the Satyros's trap before the damn creature made a meal out of him. Along the way, he slipped in and out of his Vanish spell, to make sure the spider would have a fresh trail of Mana to follow.

His legs carried him well past the magical trap, and as he ran Heinrich looked over his shoulder. The spider was still single-mindedly pursuing him. Heinrich stopped as he reached the young Satyros's side, and together they watched the creature as it finally entered the magic circle.

There was a brilliant flash of blue light, and the sound of something cracking. All of a sudden, large shards of ice erupted from the lines of the circle, entrapping the legs of the creature. The spider threw its head backward, almost as if it were crying out in pain, and it struggled against its icy shackles.

"It worked," Heinrich said, his legs shaking from fatigue and Mana loss. _"It worked!_ "

He and the Satyros approached the ensnared creature, and they were promptly joined by the group of guards. Wild grins appeared on the soldiers' faces as they came upon the eight-legged nightmare. With barbarous cries of victory, they threw their lances at the spider and filled its body with bolts and arrows. Soon, blood sputtered out of a dozen wounds, darkening the creature's golden bristles. Its eight legs now seemed to be barely able to hold its great weight. A contented sigh escaped Heinrich's lips. The beast appeared in its death throes, at last.

Heinrich limped his way toward the dying creature. Two of its legs were twitching. Heinrich's eyebrows slowly rose as he realized the ice was melting...

The young Satyros seemed to have noticed too. "Watch out!" he cried out as the two legs broke free. The creature used its newfound mobility to twist itself out of the ice trap, its legs hitting and flinging a few guardsmen into the air. Heinrich watched their screaming forms with increasing panic and tried to move, but his tired feet scarcely responded to his commands anymore.

 _"Sir!_ " the Satyros shouted again. "No! _Nooo!_ "

Heinrich tried to flee, the young Satyros's distressed face being the last thing he saw before one of the spider's legs slammed into him, sending him crashing into a wall.

* * *

Muffled sounds came to Heinrich's ears. He let out a groan, and the noises became clearer; apparently, he was surrounded by people moaning and crying out in pain. Against this backdrop of lamentations, he could make out the whispers of two women and the clattering of some metal instruments.

"Oh! He's starting to move!" he suddenly heard one of the two women saying.

"Good. He was starting to worry me, this one."

A scream pierced the haze. One of the two women gave a gasp while the other sighed.

"Keep an eye on him," the second woman said; her voice sounded younger. "I need to check up on that other patient."

Heinrich could barely hear the sounds of her steps over the harsh noise of the man's wails.

"Got it!" the other replied.

Heinrich cracked one eye open. On his right a woman was standing with her back facing him. She was dressed in white, but fresh bloodstains sullied her uniform. _A healer?_ Heinrich pondered. He tried to move, but a terrible pain surged in his side, and he plopped down on the hard mattress, panting and grunting.

"No, don't move," the woman said, "or your wounds will open again!"

Heinrich met the woman's eyes.

"Wounds...?" he said, "what... where...?"

"We managed to stop the bleeding with magic, but if you move too much, your wounds might open again. Not to mention, you also happen to have three broken ribs. You should stay put if you want these to heal correctly."

Heinrich suddenly remembered how one of the spider's legs had rammed into him, sending him flying. His stomach did a somersault at the memory.

"God," he muttered, "I managed to survive _that?_ "

"You did," the woman said with a dumbfounded smile, "and that's not the end of it. You also managed to end up with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, burns on both hands, and a broken nose to boot."

Heinrich scowled, immediately regretting the gesture as it made the pain flare in response. He tried to survey his surroundings without moving too much: he was laying in some makeshift tent hospital filled to the brim with patients—the wounded from the spider's attack, Heinrich realized.

He glanced to his left. On a tiny cot, Ernst and Eruca were sleeping soundly next to one another.

A strangely warm feeling pooled inside him at the sight of them. "How did they—?" Heinrich began, before he interrupted himself, feeling a soft smile teasing his lips " _—_ well, of course they would manage to find out where I was. Those cunning little devils..."

The nurse echoed back his smile. "So, a pair of smart cookies, huh?"

"Too smart for their own good, I'm afraid. But how do they manage to sleep with all the screaming going around, now _that's_ a mystery..."

The healer laughed. "I bet it's because the poor dears are just so tired! When they first got here, they were sick with worry for you. No matter how many times we asked them to leave, they never listened to us. In the end, we had to move a bed so they could sleep next to you."

Heinrich's throat tightened.

"I... that's very kind of you."

The healer waved a dismissive hand.

"You shouldn't thank me, that was the boss' idea. Since you saved her man, I guess she wanted to pay you back."

"Her man...?"

She pointed to a cot some two or three beds away. Heinrich squinted his eyes, recognizing the jet black hair and horns of the sleeping young man.

_The Satyros boy who helped me!_

"The little trick you've pulled with Amir—that's the boss' sweetheart—turned the tide of the battle in our favour." There was now something almost reverential in her tone. "It was really courageous of you to put your life on the line like that."

The warmth evaporated from Heinrich's smile.

"I don't want to be a hero," he said bluntly. "It might be hard to understand for you, but I really can't afford to die."

The healer pinched her mouth, obviously quite offended by his rude tone. Before she could place another word, however, the other female voice from before cut her short.

"You really can't."

Heinrich levelled his gaze to the newcomer. He slowly took in the horns coming from the messy head of red hair, the long pointed ears, and the legs covered in auburn fur. _Another Satyros...?_

"I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you." she continued, looking at him with a peculiar expression.

"Boss! You're already back! Those healing spells of yours sure work fast!"

The red-haired Satyros girl sighed.

"I only gave him a sleeping draught. Infection had settled in. There was nothing else I could do."

The other nurse averted her eyes. "Oh," she simply said.

The Satyros turned her attention back to Heinrich. Her gaze became fixed on him in an oddly unsettling way.

"Who are you?" he asked, "how did you...?"

His questions hovered unanswered in the air while she continued to stare at him. Finally, she shook her head, her lips curling a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry, sometimes I say strange things. Don't pay any mind to my ramblings." Her expression grew fonder. "You're the one who protected Amir, aren't you? I'm glad to see you well."

Heinrich wouldn't call three broken ribs and a concussion being _'well'_ , but he was in no mood to object to the term.

"I manage the clinic here," she said. "My name is Isla."

Heinrich raised suspicious eyes to meet her pale green gaze.

"You can call me Heiss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, a big thank you to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing!
> 
> (Eruca's fake name is taken from the latin name of the genus of the stock flower, Matthiola (which Stocke was named after). Both Matthiola and Eruca (which is a type of salad, poor girl) are in the Brassicaceae family - botany fact of the day. The number of characters named after plants in the game is endlessly funny to me.)
> 
> (Other fact of the day : Spiders don't have mandibles or jaws, but pedipalps... but I thought the word 'pedipalps' sounds a little too silly, so... yeah, these are magical spiders, shush.)


	8. Chapter 7 - A Man's Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The sun was setting in the desert west of Skalla, its last rays peering over the fortifications of the city, painting the outlines of its houses and roofs with a fiery brush. A few clouds, remnants of the early summer monsoon, still wandered the sky, the scattered sunlight giving them a soft pink hue. Heinrich had no interest in admiring the view, however. Whenever twilight fell, the frigid desert wind also rose, to his great irritation. As usual, his guard uniform provided no comfort against the pervasive chill; the shirt he wore under his leather armour, drenched in sweat after a day spent in the sun, just made him colder.

Worse, the recent rains had also brought a whole new world of aggravation in the form of a slew of blood-sucking vermin. The insects were mostly active a few hours before nightfall, where the cold couldn't force them into dormancy. Their invasion had also caused an epidemic of fever to sweep over the city. The sick and the dying crowded every infirmary of Skalla. For this reason, whenever Heinrich returned home in the evenings, he would find Ernst and Eruca sleeping like the dead, exhausted by their work at Isla's clinic. The sight once nearly spurred him into marching to the Satyros healer's place to give her a piece of his mind, but the children had convinced him to bury his grievances with a simple, but well-placed argument: they really did need the money.

The memory sent a bitter taste to Heinrich's mouth. Even with the cold prickling his skin and the mosquitoes buzzing about his ears he still caught himself preparing and calculating their every expense, the numbers and the sums whirling around and around in his mind until they all seemed to sizzle. It gave him the distinct desire to just scratch his head bloody to purge them out of his brain.

A sharp swat behind the head brought his ruminations to a painful end.

"Focus on the mission, soldier," Sergeant Steffen said to Heinrich. The man had been promoted as leader of their little squad after that thrice-damned spider literally tore through the ranks of the city guard almost two years ago. Heinrich had then been horrified to discover that he had rose through the ranks too, now finding himself being the new Sergeant's personal adjudant.

The newly promoted Corporal bit down a retort (Ernst would have been so proud), and turned his attentions back to their target. The man was in all appearances just a lowly merchant who peddled his fruits in the busiest street of the marketplace—but in fact he used to belong to a group of rebels in league with the infamous Desert Lord, Garland. He had been... _convinced_ , to use a softer word, to serve as their informant and inside man. He had not been so keen, however, on participating in person to their present little operation, but he had changed his mind when the Sergeant had shown himself to be quite... _persuasive_.

The fruit merchant had led them to a tavern somewhere in the newest part of town. With night now falling upon the city, the patrons were flooding inside the bar, the soft torchlight illuminating their grey, exhausted faces. Heinrich could hear a few raucous laughs springing out from their midst, but most spoke too softly for him to make out the words.

Heinrich drew a breath, his hand moving to brush across the bag where he hid the White Chronicle, the touch soothing his rattled nerves. The other members of his squad all observed their own rituals before a battle; jittery Alistel-born country girl Livia, with her pale freckled skin and boyishly short straw-coloured hair, kept muttering to herself a sort of litany. Balding and broad-faced knife specialist Gyorg kissed his lucky charm, an ugly necklace made of colourful beads that had apparently been made by his daughter. Forty-something Cygnan military woman Hester rubbed her nose, her fingers lingering on the deep red scar that cut across her face and took a chunk of her right ear. And the most efficient member of their squad, Cole, the brooding ex-mercenary from Granorg, just stared ahead, his piercing ice blue eyes never wavering from their spot.

"Alright, men," said Sergeant Steffen. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "Time to move. Get going!"

The man crossed the alleyway that separated them from the entrance of the tavern in a few swift steps, Heinrich and the rest of their squad marching after him. Their sudden appearance had an immediate effect on the people gathered in front of the establishment. Some made themselves scarce, hissing curses under their breaths, while others only stiffened on their spots, staring at Sergeant Steffen and the rest of his company with eyes that promised nothing peaceful.

The Sergeant kicked the door open. A weighted silence fell upon every man and woman in the bar as their gazes landed on the newcomer. Still, not a second had passed that the quiet had yielded to cacophony, and profanities, shouts, and the sounds of chairs scrapping against the floor soon filled the air.

"Back in your seats!" Sergean Steffen shouted to a group who had hastily risen from the table where they had been playing cards. "Put all your hands somewhere where I can see them. No sudden movements, or we'll have to cut you down! This doesn't need to get bloody!"

The barkeeper made his way toward Steffen. Heinrich could not help but grimace at the amount of sweat streaming down his neck and brow. "What is the meaning of this?" the man said. His beady, watery eyes reminded Heinrich quite strongly of a rodent.

There was a sudden movement somewhere around the back of the room, and Heinrich felt his attention snapping away from the barkeeper. His gaze came to rest on a familiar figure. The man's features were too hazy for Heinrich to decipher, but there was no mistaking the ill-fitting clothes floating around that lanky form, or the skittish manner in which he held himself. The fruit merchant was slowly making his way toward a door on the other side of the bar, his back brushing against the wall as he moved.

"I said—" Steffen said, but one look across the room stopped him in his tirade; he too had seen their informant's attempt at an escape.

 _"Move!_ " the Sergeant shouted. Heinrich drew his two daggers, and he heard the sounds of blades sliding out of their scabbards as the rest of his squadmates did the same. He and the others stormed through the bar, the patrons and employees scrambling out of the way to let them pass. As one particularly foul-smelling man bellowed at him, spraying his face with spittle, Heinrich strangely found himself cursing the day he decided to escape from Castle Granorg and its numerous comforts and amenities.

The fastest in their squad was Hester, and she rammed into the door to open it, revealing another room where a ragtag group of men and women stood half-risen from their seats, hovering on their spots like a pack of panicked animals that had just been sighted by a beast of prey. Some immediately reached for their weapons, but most made a run for it, heading toward an exit that most likely led to an alleyway behind the bar.

 _"Dammit!_ " Sergeant Steffen said. "Secure the back door, but try to keep a few of them alive! We need them for questioning!"

Heinrich echoed the Sergeant's curse under his breath, hesitating, while the others rushed into combat. The battle came to him, however, in the form of a short young brigand wielding a hatchet. Her face was covered by a bandana, showing only her pale, crazed eyes as she swung her weapon in Heinrich's direction. Gasping, the bearer of the White Chronicle crouched, and only his impectable timing saved him from having his scalp neatly removed from his head.

Heinrich bolted on his feet, sidestepping to slash at her unprotected side. The young rebel woman hastily pulled a knife from the holster strapped to her hip, the small blade deflecting Heinrich's dagger. Still, she had been too slow, and Heinrich's attack drew blood; she let out a growl of pain and anger, and Heinrich saw the knife in her hand quivering as her grip loosened around the handle.

Heinrich would have used this opportunity to strike and disarm her, but before he could make his move, something rammed into him, knocking the air out his lungs. One of her comrades had launched himself at him. Heinrich stumbled to the ground, his heart pounding madly in his ribcage, and with faltering movements he raised a dagger to protect himself from the large shadow now hovering over him. The brigand lifted his own weapon—a thick, rusty longsword—to finish off the job.

Heinrich sucked in a breath, eyes riveted on the face of the man who was about to kill him, when suddenly his would-be murderer stopped in his movement, letting out a soft gurgled sound. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he gave Heinrich a baffled, almost incredulous look as his lumbering form tumbled to the ground. A knife was embedded right in the middle of his shoulder blades.

Behind the masked rebel woman, Heinrich caught a glimpse of Gyorg as he stood, his hand reaching for another knife. The young woman, for her part, only stared blankly as her companion's inert figure. Using these few precious seconds Heinrich jumped to his feet, panting, but he had barely managed to steady himself once more that she was upon him, screaming. Even with the mask on her face, Heinrich could see the despair, the rage etched on every inch of her features. Even after he'd succeeded in thrusting a dagger somewhere above her stomach by sheer luck, he sensed her summoning every shred of vitality she still had left to hate him, to _curse_ his very being. The realization was numbing; Heinrich felt his brain clearing of all thoughts as he stared into her wrathful, tear-filled eyes...

"The stairs!" he suddenly heard Sergeant Steffen bellow. "They're heading for the stairs! Stop them!"

The words shook Heinrich like a blow to the gut, and his eyes snapped away from the dying girl's gaze. Hester and Cole were guarding the back door, a few wounded rebels moaning at their feet. Gyorg was rushing away from Heinrich to reach Livia's side. The young woman had sustained a blow to her sword arm, and was now feebly trying to fend off the attacks of two men wielding broken bottles as weapons. Which only left...

"Heiss, dammit!" Steffen roared. "Get a move on! Don't let them escape!"

Heinrich swore loudly, kicking the young woman's now dead body off his blade. He ran for the stairs, coming face-to-face with a terrified looking young man on the first steps.

" _Nooo..._ please don't hurt me, please!" the young man wailed. His pleas turned into screams when Heinrich buried one of his daggers into his shoulder, then became excessively grating, almost nauseating shrieks when Heinrich wrenched out the blade, leaving a gaping wound behind.

Once again Heinrich found no time to ponder what was happening. The sounds of a few heavy footsteps above his head informed him a rebel had escaped to the second floor. He climbed the stairs two by two, a thick fog starting to settle into his mind.

There was only one lone man on the second floor, and he whirled on his feet when Heinrich leaped over the last step. The man, tall and built like an ox, snarled like a feral animal as he took up his sword.

"Lay down your weapon," Heinrich said, his mind oddly void of anything, even the sense of fright he really should have been supposed to feel at the sight of this brute, "and I won't—"

"Over my dead body." The man spat at the floor. "Get over here, so I can yank out your spine for everything you and your lot have done to my comrades."

Perhaps the threat should have chilled him to the bone, but Heinrich only found himself grinning at his opponent's words. The man's eyes bulged at the unsaid taunt, and his hand tightened around the handle of his sword.

With a wordless sound of fury, he hurled himself toward Heinrich, the latter rising one blade to block the blow. The shriek of metal against metal reverberated across the room, and, feeling his smirk freezing into place, Heinrich revealed his other dagger, swinging it upward to slash at the man's torso. The bulky rebel howled with pain and staggered, his sword falling uselessly at the floor.

"Now," Heinrich said, pointing the tip of one dagger in the man's face, "stay put until the rest of the squad—"

He had no time to finish giving his order; the man was launching himself at Heinrich at a speed that was at odds with his great girth. Heinrich instinctively gave an upward slash, missing his target by a mere inch, and the man grappled Heinrich from behind, one hand grabbing his wrist while the other snaked around his neck.

Heinrich flailed his arms about, trying to land a blow on his assailant, but with every passing second the man tightened his hold, and Heinrich's vision darkened and blurred. Heinrich thrashed and screamed and fought to stay conscious, his fading vision sweeping madly across the room to— _there!_ he was sure that the figure standing at the top of the stairs was a comrade of his. Still, why were they not moving to his aid? Why did they stand, immobile, as he was being strangled by one of the enemy?

With one last desperate shout, Heinrich shoved one elbow into the man's side, burying the tip of the joint into the man's wound. The rebel's scream rung in Heinrich's ears, and with his dimming senses he was aware the man was stumbling back—dragging Heinrich along with him.

The figure at the top of the stairs shouted something, their hand stretching as though they were trying to reach for Heinrich. The man clutching Heinrich was losing his balance, and the latter felt them falling down almost as if they were moving at a fraction of a second. Heinrich sensed them collide with something from behind—and for one terrifying instant his mind cleared as he realized they were about to plummet down from a window.

Everything became excruciatingly clear as they toppled over the frame of the window—the orange of the sky above, the screams that erupted everywhere... and the fear, the revelation that Heinrich's life was going to soon flicker out, his entire existence stomped out for no discernible reason other than God's nasty sense of humour.

There was a sickening crunch as they landed on a wooden cart stationed under the window, and a pain, a white-hot pain surged somewhere around Heinrich's left shoulder, sending a sharp current of agony through every other nerve of his body. Heinrich screamed and screamed... until a veil of darkness was draped over him, snuffing out the last bits of his consciousness.

* * *

"I don't know if you're the luckiest human I've ever met, or the unluckiest, Mr. Heiss. Personally, I'd lean towards the former."

Heinrich levelled a pair of livid eyes to his interlocutor. He gathered all his forces to voice his disagreement, but all that came out of his mouth were a few garbled noises and something that suspiciously sounded like a particularly nasty synonym for a female goat.

"You know I'm right," Isla said in a placid tone. "You do get injured far more often than your average human, but at the same time, I've never seen anyone survive the kind of wounds you've sustained. Out there, someone must be looking out for you."

Heinrich glared at her, voicing all his displeasure with a few undignified grunts. He silently cursed those healing draughts of hers... they did help with the pain, but they always made his head so _dizzy_.

Isla sighed, and her brow furrowed; she was back to being the serious Satyros girl he'd learned to know in the past two years. _"But_ you have to stop being so foolish. A broken leg, not to mention that wound in your shoulder... if that splinter had been just a little more to the right, it would have severed your spine. You would be dead." Her eyes were dark with reproach. "And I can't allow myself bring your dead body back home to Stocke and Mattie. I forbid you to die. You _have_ to live, for the world's sake." And with those words, she departed from Heinrich's bedchamber, leaving him stranded with the pain and the jumbled thoughts now swarming his mind.

Fortunately for Heinrich, the new lodgings they had found not long after the spider's attack were located in the most ancient part of Skalla, not far away from Isla's clinic. After the rest of his squad dragged his bloodied and sometimes hysterically thrashing form away to be treated by the Satyros woman, Ernst and Eruca had convinced the young healer to let him spend the long weeks of his recovery at home. That would make him more manageable, they had argued.

It did mean, however, that Heinrich had to endure frequent visits by the Satyros healer, who really was too cheeky for his taste. The first time he managed to stay conscious without feeling the desire to purge the content of his stomach with every movement he made, he had asked if there was anything she could do to mend his broken leg.

"I can't waste any time just laying in bed," he had said. "I need to get to work. I _need_ that money."

She had given him a dry look at those words. "I did all I could. Healing magic doesn't work so well on broken bones."

When he'd opened his mouth to protest, she had continued. "Magic heals wounds by directing the caster's Mana to the one who is injured, to accelerate their natural healing process. It works well to close open wounds like the one in your shoulder." Her frown had then deepened. "But it can't just create materials like bone tissue out of nothing. Such a process takes time and rest." She had then stayed annoyingly inflexible on that subject.

The days thus went by, with only Isla's visits and the children's presence in the evenings to break the monotony. When Isla finally allowed him to walk around with a cane, Ernst and Eruca even came up to him, their faces alight with joy. His nephew then handed him something swaddled in a brown handkerchief, and a puzzled Heinrich was surprised to discover a small, well-worn book hidden in the makeshift wrapping.

"Is that... Carolus' _Species Plantarum_?" a baffled Heinrich said. He had owned a copy back home in Granorg, one he had to smuggle into the castle, even, since the author was Alistellian. "What possessed you to buy such a thing?"

Ernst and Eruca shared a look, apparently as bewildered as him, although probably not for the same reason. "Isn't it your birthday today?" Ernst asked. "I hope we didn't mix up the date or anything..."

"No," Heinrich said, suddenly remembering, "you _are_ right. I had forgotten." He flipped through the pages, ending up on an entry that stated:

 _Salva cornetium, C. (215)_ _Common name: Conut_  
_Small, perennial bush known for its white flowers and edible orange fruits.  
Native to the region of Cornet in northern Granorg. Not much is known about—_

Heinrich slammed the book shut. The two children were looking at him, Ernst sporting his characteristic half-grin while Eruca was wringing her hands together, clearly anticipating his reaction.

"Well," Heinrich said, "um, thank you." He feigned a smile. For the two children, the small book was something meant to brighten his days; instead, he could only think of the money they must have wasted buying this unnecessary gift. "How thoughtful of you." His voice came out sounding brittle and hollow.

Their smiles froze into place. Suddenly, Heinrich couldn't bear to look at them without feeling sick to the stomach.

* * *

After a few weeks, Heinrich could finally hobble around on his own, aided by a cane. It was still too early for him to consider going back to work (Sergeant Steffen had even chewed him out when he had suggested it), so for a long time his only chores were to buy supplies with their quickly dwindling funds, hop to the few places he knew were haunted by bounty hunters to catch the latest information about his brother's schemes, and take care of household matters (excluding cooking - they were not desperate enough to risk a possible death by food poisoning).

It left him a great more deal of spare time than was healthy.

On some days, Heinrich's leg hurt so much he spent most of his time in bed. He would then take the White Chronicle from under the broken plank beneath his bed (the small lodgings they rented, being situated in the oldest parts of Skalla, was built using a lot of wood, a legacy of the times where abundant forests grew north of the city), and gaze upon the yellowed pages, lost in thought. More than two years had passed since he'd fled from Granorg... and yet no new node had appeared since then. The pages that followed the last node, which was the one describing the events leading up to Ernst twelfth's birthday, were blank.

 _The Chronicle senses which timelines are viable_ , Teo had once explained to him. _If you were to manipulate events in a manner where the Ritual becomes impossible to perform, then my sister and I would have to cull this timeline from existence._

With a sudden roar of fury, Heinrich flung the White Chronicle across his room, the book colliding with the wall and hitting the ground with a dull thud. For several seconds he stared at the old tome, panting and wincing at the pain flaring up in his shoulder. Remembering Teo's words had been like throwing a match in a pile of dead leaves; the buried, accumulated resentment had ignited, and now scorching hatred blazed over him. Several faces flashed through his mind—his brother's, the Sergeant's, even Teo and Lippti's—but more than anything he wanted to set the White Chronicle ablaze to watch its old pages twisting in the flames, and finally present its blackened remains to Victor with a grin of victory.

After a while, however, Heinrich's fury dimmed down, leaving him feeling spent out and more than a little foolish. Victor had been the one with the explosive, immature rages; he, Heinrich, prided himself in being different in that aspect. He had always managed to rein in his emotions since he knew such open displays were not fit for one of his station, showing himself capable of staying cool and collected and even refined whenever he was angry—

 _(He could suddenly remember the warmth of the red liquid on his fingers and the genuine, almost childlike fear in Victor's blue eyes; he could still feel that flicker of satisfaction burning alongside the fiery rage; and once again he was burying the knife into the skin and the muscles, and out came the blood, the blood,_ the blood _—)_

The images and sensations were as vivid as though the event had happened yesterday. Slowly, Heinrich sat back onto the bed, shivering. He could not reconcile the grinning murderer he saw in his memories and the idea of himself he had built up as the years went by. _What am I really?_

He could barely remember his life from _before._ Feeling his blood cooling in his veins, Heinrich searched through his memories and discovered with mounting horror that he had no recollection of his mother's face or his nanny's voice. He looked deep in the confines of his consciousness, finding that he could only recall his father as a tall, imposing figure with a face veiled in shadows. Even Ernst and Eruca's mother Sophia, whom he knew had been one of his only companions while growing up in Castle Granorg, was now shrouded in mist. He could only think of sad green eyes when he evoked her name in his mind.

Was he still Heinrich, even though his body held the soul of someone else? Or had Heinrich died all those years ago, and the mind controlling his body was nothing but an impostor, just a twisted creature born of murder and perverse sorcery?

The cold seeped deeper into his skin, and Heinrich curled back under the bedsheets. Suddenly, the pain in his leg and shoulder felt very insignificant in the face of the disgust borne of this revelation...

* * *

Heinrich was woken up, several hours later, by a few voices chattering in the other room. At first the sounds sent him in a frightened stupor; he had spent most of the afternoon haunted by the nauseating impression that something was crawling under his skin—that something had invaded, no, _defiled_ his body and then took control of it—and he had not even noticed he'd drifted into sleep.

"—can you believe it?" Ernst was saying. "Just how ungrateful can he be?" His voice was cracking at some points, sometimes being its usual higher pitch, sometimes dropping well below normal. That, alongside with his sudden growth spurt, disturbed Heinrich to the highest degree.

"We really spent a lot of time searching for something he would like," Eruca piped up. Heinrich's mood darkened as he realized what they were talking about.  
  
"That's not very considerate of him, yes," a third voice answered. Isla had accompanied the children back home, it seemed. "But try to keep in mind that he is under a lot of stress. His wounds were very severe. He must be in terrible pain."

A silence followed. Heinrich wondered what was the children's expressions at this: were they sorry or did they really just not care?

"He must be," Ernst said; he _did_ sound a little regretful. "I was really sca—it was really scary when Miss Roslin came to bring us to the clinic. I really thought he was a goner."

"It really was," Eruca added in a small voice. "Thank you again for taking care of him, Isla."

There was a laugh from the Satyros healer. "That must be the tenth time you've thanked me, Mattie." Heinrich heard the sounds of someone opening a drawer, and the clanks of pots bumping together. "Your father is surprisingly resilient. I've never seen a human heal so fast. It must be because of that unbelievable amount of Mana flowing through his body."

Heinrich's breath hitched in his throat.

"How can you know that?" Ernst asked. "You've said me and Mattie have more potential for magic than the average human kid, too. That's not something everyone can see."

"I just can." There was a stubborn finality to Isla's words. She clearly did not want to elaborate on the subject.

"Do all the Satyros have this kind of ability?"

"No." She sighed. "It's very rare, and only found within certain bloodlines."

Ernst began to speak again, but Heinrich heard Eruca cutting him off with a small shushing sound.

"How is Amir?" she finally asked. "Is he going to come back soon?"

Someone began to chop down something, vegetables most likely. The children and Isla were making dinner, apparently.

"I don't really know," said Isla. "His work can take him very far away."

"How come you never go with him?" said Ernst.

There was the sound of water sloshing around in a cauldron. "I'm not very fond of travelling, really. The only place I'd like to visit with Amir is Celestia. He's never seen the place."

"Celestia? But aren't all Satyros born in Celestia?"

This time, the silence was taut and heavy. Even the sounds of cutting and the rattle of utensils stopped. "Amir was born a slave."

Heinrich exhaled slowly through his nose, passing a hand over his face. He imagined how upset Ernst and Eruca must have looked, feeling himself a bit dismayed by association.

"I'm sorry," Ernst said, the shame evident in every word. "I-I didn't know."

"It's alright. There never was an occasion for me to speak of this, so..."

"I thought slavery was against the law," said Eruca. Her voice was nothing more than a horrified whisper.

Isla sighed again. "In Skalla, it is. Lord Cedrus has converted to the faith of Noah twenty years ago, so he outlawed the practise. But in the surrounding cities..."

At her words, the children went quiet.

"So here in Skalla, there's no slavery, right?" Ernst then said, hopeful. "At least, there's that?"

"The law forbids it," Isla replied, her voice carefully neutral, "even though it makes many people very angry. It's a very profitable business practise, you see..." There was a discernible shift in her tone, and Heinrich felt a little sickened as he came to understand the underlying idea beneath her statement, "...and the city of Skalla... is known for being good at fostering business."

Had the children caught on to the second meaning of her words, Heinrich wondered? He himself knew about the issue because of a few stories he'd heard through the grapevine. Most of the times, the faulty merchants would grease the right hands, and the law would then look the other way, letting the bastards continue their business with nothing but a slap on the wrist.

Soon, the conversation had started anew, and after listening for a bit Heinrich was thankful to hear that they'd found another, more mundane subject to discuss. Relieved, he slipped out of bed, and hobbled out of the room, and as Ernst and Eruca greeted him with a smile, all was well in the world for at least one more fleeting moment.

* * *

When Isla finally allowed him to go back to work, one month afterwards, Heinrich went to the barracks without much enthusiasm. Receiving a salary once more was a relief, but there was the added expense of being forced once more to interact with the members of his squad. The Sergeant, Hester and Cole welcomed him with indifference, as he'd expected, while Livia gave him one stiff handshake then went on to continue whatever she was doing before. Only Gyorg seemed pleased to have him back; the man even offered to go drinking and wenching after work, putting his arm around a repulsed Heinrich's shoulders in a manner that was probably meant to be friendly. Heinrich refused with a disgusted sneer, making Gyorg roar in laughter. Apparently, the man couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that someone would turn down a good night of partying and fooling around with brothel girls.

Another difficulty had reared its ugly head in the days that preceded Heinrich's return. With great irritation, Heinrich found out that there had been a breakout in the prison where the sympathizers of Lord Garland had been detained. Some had managed to escaped, but most had been killed during the commotion, and while a few scraps of information had been tortured out of the prisoners beforehand, it hadn't been enough to give them a new lead to follow.

Apparently, they had thought of starting their investigation once more by checking the barkeeper's background and possible connection to the rebel group. Heinrich had to contain the sudden urge to bash his head on the wall when the others told him the man had managed to flee in the chaos that had surrounded their first assault, making it impossible to arrest him. Worse, they'd found through a few of the tortured rebels that he had apparently no link with the insurgency. Still, Heinrich found the whole affair quite shady. The man had been far too nervous at the sight of them when they'd raided the rebels' meeting. And latter investigations had shown that he had apparently being sitting on a rather big pile of cash, far more than a barkeeper's meagre salary. It just didn't add up.

In a way, it was as though they were back at square one. Marius—who had been promoted as Captain in the wake of the giant spider's attack—had been beyond himself with rage. He had then assigned them to boring patrol jobs, giving the reins of the affair of the insurgents to presumably some more efficient subordinates.

It was a mixed blessing for Heinrich. On one hand, it made his work simpler in many ways. On the other, it put an additional strain on his still-healing leg.  
  
One day, he came home, his limp worse than ever, the pain having become almost unbearable. As he turned the corner, nearly reaching his destination, Heinrich noticed a number of children shouting and playing in the street. He approached the frontdoor steps, where Eruca was sitting next to a great pot filled with stew and conversing with a girl whose dark hair was gathered in a messy ponytail. The girl licked her fingers clean and then wiped them on her dirty, tattered dress, earning herself a twitch of the eye from Heinrich. Ernst was not far away; armed with a stick, he was exchanging blows with a few equally raggedy looking urchins.

Heinrich walked over to Eruca, suddenly filled with apprehension.

"Oh, welcome back, Father, how was your day?" she said. Before he could answer, a little boy sauntered over, presenting her with an empty wooden bowl with a demanding cry of _"More!_ " Under Heinrich's stupefied eyes, she filled it with stew, and the boy bolted away to join the other children who were watching Ernst's fight, not even stopping to thank Eruca.

"That's—" Heinrich said, pointing the little boy, who was now cheering and sending more than half the content of his bowl on the ground with every bounce.

"I can explain, Mr. Heiss, sir," the dark-haired girl said, sheepishly. She then plunged her own spoon into the pot of stew, before shoving it directly into her mouth. "It was my birthday, so Stocke and Mattie made some grub for me. Before we knew it, pretty much half the kids in the neighbourhood were here to freeload." She spoke with a drawling accent that hinted at a not-so-illustrious background.

"Isla and Ms. Roslin from the clinic helped too," Eruca added.

"You," Heinrich said, and he was starting to realize exactly what emotion had begun to rise in his gut, "you bought all the ingredients yourselves?" He peered inside the pot. "Even the _meat?_ "

"Brother and I pooled our funds." A bit of red crept up Eruca's cheeks. "We took some of the vegetables you bought yesterday, but—"

Heinrich felt himself shudder with anger. "Inside the house. _Now._ I need to speak to you and your brother." And he pushed the door open and limped his way up the stairs, leaving a dismayed and confused Eruca still standing behind, ladle in hand.

* * *

"What's this all about?" was the first thing Ernst asked after he followed his uncle and sister back into their small home. "Why are you so mad?"

"What's so wrong about making stew for our friend's birthday?"

Heinrich slid into a chair, scowling as he rubbed his sore leg. "It's about you not knowing where our priorities should lie."

Ernst frowned. "What? I don't get why it's such a problem. Most of those kids live in the streets. They were pretty damn happy to have a warm meal for once."

Heinrich shot him a dark look. "We can barely scrape a living for ourselves. Being charitable is a commendable sentiment when you are one of the lucky few of the upper classes of society, but in our current situation, it is suicidal _nonsense_."

"Things aren't _that_ bad for us," Ernst said.

Heinrich clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "We've been here long enough. Your father's hired hands haven't found our trail yet, but it will happen someday. Soon, we'll need to find another place to live. And when that time comes, we will need any resource we can get our hands on in order to survive."

The two children exchanged hesitant gazes.

"But some people out there are just so _unlucky_ ," said Eruca. "Being in trouble ourselves doesn't mean we shouldn't try to help them, right?" Her voice held a stubborn streak that rubbed Heinrich the wrong way.

"Spare me that kind of gratuitous self-righteousness," Heinrich growled. "You set out to right every wrong in the world and you'll only end up with a heap of troubles on your own shoulders. You can't afford to think that way if you want to keep on living."

Eruca pouted, her expression childish yet surprisingly bitter. "If we think like that, then how can we make the world a better place? The only reason our friend is in the street in the first place is because her family died in the war. And the war is happening because the desertification is _—_ "

Heinrich rose in such a precipitated movement that it flung the chair behind him, and wood hit wood in a violent crash. The children both jerked on their seats, startled, and Eruca brought her hands together in front of her mouth, her eyes growing wide with fright.

"What did you just say?" Heinrich said in almost a murmur. He walked up to his niece. Her eyes refused to meet his, and they settled on a spot to her right to avoid his scrutiny.

"I just meant that we left Granorg to find a way to stop the desertification, right?" she mumbled. "Shouldn't we try to do something before it gets worse? So that people like her won't have to live through such horrible things ever again?"

"I already _told_ you," Heinrich hissed between clenched teeth. He saw Eruca swallowing nervously. "I can barely keep the three of us alive, let alone find a solution to something that has plagued the continent for centuries. It shouldn't be our problem."

"But it _is_." Heinrich whirled to glare at his nephew, and the teenage boy cleared his throat before continuing. "No one but us knows what's the real cause of the desertification. So that makes it our responsibility, doesn't it? Since we're the only ones that can really do something about it. Someone once told me—perhaps it was Mother, I can't really remember—but they said that if we had a chance to help someone, then we _have_ to do it. That it's our duty. Isn't that right?"

Heinrich could almost taste the bile rising in his mouth. "Duty. _Duty_. You sound like your father." Ernst's face darkened at the last word, and the boy slowly rose from his chair, regarding his uncle with a cold look. "That was a word Victor loved to use. Stand up and and let me stab you for the sake of the world, Heinrich, he'd say. After all, it is your _duty_." A loud, joyless laugh tumbled out of Heinrich's mouth. "Because I was ejected from my mother seven years too late, my duty is to be _murdered_ , while he..." His hands curled into fists, and a shiver of disgust crawled on his skin. "If only... if only I had been born _first._ "

"Is that what it is all about?" Eruca's voice came softly. Heinrich turned to face her. Now the girl was not averting her eyes; she was looking directly at him, her gaze showing a strange mixture of pity and contempt. "You being jealous of Father?"

The world went white in front of Heinrich's eyes. The pain throbbing in his leg and this sudden, surging rage crashed into him, crushing all of his coherent thoughts. A raspy growl escaped his lips, and he caught sight of Eruca rising her arms as if to protect herself from something, a shadow now looming over her small form.

"Fath—no, Uncle, _stop!_ "

Heinrich blinked, sharply gathering his breath. Ernst's cry had dragged him back to reality. Eruca was stiff as a statue, her tear-filled blue eyes peering from behind her fingers. His hand was poised right above her head, ready to strike.

"You," Ernst said, disbelieving, "you were about to hit her. _You were about to hit her._ "

Heinrich stood unmoving, his mouth growing dry as he heard Ernst's heavy footsteps approaching. He turned, rising his eyes to meet the blue-green gaze. The boy had drawn himself to his full height, and he was an good inch taller than Heinrich.

"You... _you bastard._ " There was no fire, no scorching fervour behind Ernst's words—no, his voice crackled like ice, his fury washing over Heinrich like cold water.

Heinrich felt the heat draining from his entire body. _What did I do?_ _What have I done?_ He glanced down at Eruca. She appeared shaken, but he could perceive something else emanating from her. Revulsion, perhaps, or even a sense of disillusionment.

The realization crept over him, sapping the air out of his lungs. She was giving him the same kind of look Ernst always had whenever he gazed at his father.

"I... no... I wouldn't... I didn't mean to, I swear—" Heinrich said. He stepped away from the two children. When Ernst opened his mouth again, his face twisting in spite, Heinrich instead took to his heels, paying no mind to the pain in his leg, and ran.

He didn't stop until he was a good two or three blocks away.

* * *

Heinrich spent that whole night outside, finding shelter in a rundown, abandoned house that had been wrecked by the rampaging spider two years ago. But in-between the bitter cold and the whirlwind of emotions storming his mind, he never managed to find true sleep, and when he did slip out of consciousness, he was plagued by terrible nightmares.

The following days, Heinrich did everything in his power to avoid his nephew and niece - and the crushing disappointment they no doubt felt toward him. Always, he woke up a good hour before sunrise to gather his things without alerting the still sleeping children to his presence. He would then only come home well after the sun had set, sneaking back to his room to get some rest only after making sure Ernst and Eruca had already gone to bed.

Sometimes, Heinrich followed Gyorg up on his previous offer, killing time in taverns and inns of questionable reputation. Not that he enjoyed any of it; he found the taste of the ale abhorrent and the aggressive demeanour of the serving wenches even more so. And always, deep in the corner of his mind, he'd find himself confronted once more with the cold hatred of Ernst's blue-green eyes and the unsaid condemnation of Eruca's silence.

As Heinrich was sitting, morose, at the counter of one such establishment, someone suddenly slapped him on the back, making him choke on his mouthful of ale. He jumped to his feet, fists raised and ready to strike.

"Whoa, Heiss, why so jumpy?" said Gyorg. The man lifted his hands in a show of surrender. "You really never loosen up, do you? Why don't you sit back and unwind sometimes? It would do you some real good, I bet."

Heinrich sighed, his arms dropping limply to his sides. "I seem to have misplaced the ability to have fun years ago," he drawled.

Gyorg barked a laugh and clapped Heinrich on the back again, plainly ignoring the latter's obvious discomfort at the touch.

"Then that's something we should try to fix, shouldn't we?" the man said, grinning. His smile froze without any warning. "Wait, isn't that—?"

Heinrich glanced over to where Gyorg was pointing. One patron was sitting alone at his table, sipping his ale while nervously scanning his surroundings. Dark shadows encircled his eyes, and beads of sweat pearled at his brow.

Heinrich's fingers drummed on the table. "Oh. What an idiot. I would have tried to flee from the city were I in his shoes."

"That makes us all the more lucky," Gyorg said, cracking his knuckles together. "You up to carry him back to the Captain all tied up nicely like a birthday gift?"

Heinrich only glided silently over to the man's table. The runaway tavern keeper only noticed his approach at the last possible moment.

"W-what?" the man said, moving as if to rise from his chair. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Easy now." Gyorg said. He'd gone to stand behind the man. The innkeeper jumped out his seat in alarm, but Gyorg shoved him back into his chair with a not-so-gentle push. "We'd like for you to accompany us somewhere where you've been needed for a long time now..."

"Y-you... you were among the guards who raided my place!" His voice had risen in a shout, and the other patrons and serving girls stopped their drinking and feasting, craning up their necks to look at their table.

"Stop your fussing and just follow us," Heinrich growled. In a forceful gesture, he grabbed him by the arm to drag him away.

The man wailed as Heinrich flung him out of the bar and into the dirt.

"I haven't done anything, you can't do this!"

"You've escaped custody and questioning," Gyorg said.

The innkeeper wiped the tears and the snot from his face with the back of his sleeve. "I don't have anything to do with those fanatics, I swear. I had no idea they were about to use my place for a meeting."

"That would make you even stupider than I initially thought," Heinrich sneered. "But if it is true, then why did you run? We would have let you go after learning you have nothing to do with the insurgency."

"How was I supposed to know that? I'm an honest man, I've never had any trouble with the law before! How was I supposed to know if I could trust you lot? You know what everybody says about the people of the city guard _—_ "

"Talking about honesty," Gyorg cut him off, rubbing his chin, apparently contemplating something, "care to tell us how d'you find yourself in possession of such a load of cash? That's a lot of money for just a common innkeeper."

"Y-you want a bribe? Is that it?" was the man's only answer. His voice was quivering, but he was looking at Heinrich and Gyorg with shrewd eyes.

Heinrich frowned, but to his eternal disgust, Gyorg cocked a appreciative brow.

"Maybe I could be convinced. Heiss, you in? Wanna buy something for one of your boys? My wife always shuts up whenever I get something for her."

"You could only have found that kind of money illegally," Heinrich said. He plain ignored Gyorg's disappointed glance. "Banditry. Selling merchandise on the black market." An idea, so simple yet so brilliant, sprung to his mind. "Or even slavery."

It was pure conjecture, just a shot in the dark, but to Heinrich's genuine surprise the barkeeper flinched. It had been a fleeting, split-second movement, one that would have been imperceptible if he hadn't been paying attention, but Heinrich knew he had seen it. "Is that it? You got that money from dealing with slavers?"

Gyorg scratched his head, perplexed. "Well, that would certainly change a few things."

 _"No!_ " the man shouted, grabbing the fabric of Heinrich's pants. "That's not true! I swear—!"

"We still need to bring you back to the barracks for questioning," Heinrich said, imperturbable. He seized the man by the collar to drag him to his feet. "We'll be able to see then if you're lying or not."

"I'll make it double—I'll pay you twice your salary if you let me go!"

Heinrich looked into the man's face, holding it close to his own, and hundreds of contradicting thoughts began to buzz in his mind. From behind, Gyorg whistled.

"We could come to an arrangement, yes," he said, the smirk evident in his voice. "Come on, Heiss. Just this once, stop being an uptight prick." This time, there was a slightly menacing quality to his tone.

Heinrich tightened his hold on the man. Saying yes would put an end to many of his daily worries. With that kind of money, they could get out of Skalla and rebuild a new life as far away as possible from Victor's reach.

But then Ernst's face came to his mind. What would the boy think of his uncle, condoning the actions of a man who had sent men, women and children to a gruesome and unforgiving existence? How would Eruca—self-righteous, naive little Eruca—react to such an arrangement?

 _They wouldn't have to know about it_ , a voice whispered from the depths of his mind. _And you could finally get away from Victor..._

Heinrich froze as he thought of his brother. Victor, the tyrant hated by his people. Victor, who had been a disappointment to their dying father, who had earned his beloved wife's scorn, who had never tried to be a father to his own children. Victor, the man whom Heinrich detested more than anything... and who, Heinrich was sure of it, would have accepted this offer the moment it had left the innkeeper's lips.

"I'm bringing you to my superior," said Heinrich. "You'll have to answer for your crimes."

Both the innkeeper and Gyorg protested, the former with much sobbing and begging, while Gyorg muttered something about Heinrich's possible lacking mental capabilities. But Heinrich did not care. He could not remember the faces of some of the most important people in his life, but he could recall what they thought of him. His father had said on his deathbed that he wished he had been the firstborn son. Queen Sophia had appreciated his company, confiding in him like a trusted friend. And Heinrich never could quite grasp the inexplicable fondness Ernst and Eruca sometimes displayed toward him, but they certainly trusted him to do the right thing.  
  
_I won't be like Victor._ Heinrich vowed. _I'm a better person._ The thought lifted a weight from his heart. _I'm not like him. I'm still me._

* * *

After bringing the man to the barracks and spending most of the following day explaining to Captain Marius what had happened, Heinrich finally made his way home in the late evening, his heart pounding madly in his chest.

 _I'm not a bad person. I'm not. I'm a good man_ , he repeated to himself. _I'm someone worthy of being entrusted with Ernst and Eruca's lives. I'm not a bad person._

Heinrich climbed up the stairs, the steps creaking under his feet. As he made his ascent, he could hear Ernst's laughter springing up from beyond the door and Isla's voice gently chiding him. He clenched his fist over his heart, painfully sucked in a breath, and opened the door.

His entrance seemed to send a chill over the entire room. Isla looked at him, her pale eyes narrowing, her lips pressing into a line. Ernst remained still with shock for a moment, but then Heinrich could sense waves of animosity coming from the boy, even from a few feet away. And Eruca reminded him of a small animal caught in a trap as she settled her big, startled eyes on him, her body tensing in surprise and fright.

Heinrich walked toward her without a word, feeling the weights of Isla and Ernst's stares; in all honesty, he knew he deserved that kind of contempt. He stopped in front of his niece, invoking all his courage to croak out these words.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Eruca blinked, once, twice, as if she didn't quite grasp what her uncle had just said. Then, her face gently broke into a simple and hopeful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, a big thank you to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing!
> 
> Also, I'm really grateful for all the reviewers, anonymous or otherwise, who left a few words (or a Like on Tumblr) on this story. It's so sweet, and it gives me hope that I might be getting somewhere with this. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	9. Chapter 8 - Of Sacrifices and Shamans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heinrich had seen his share of cadavers in his last few years as a fugitive and a soldier, but somehow this one corpse still managed to upset his normally strong stomach.

And so, it was with a handkerchief over his mouth that he examined the body of Sergeant Steffen. The Sergeant's captors had apparently taken their sweet time tending to him; they had dressed him down to his undergarments, and the once pale fabric was now crisscrossed with crimson gashes showing the bloody and bruised skin beneath. One of his arms hung limply— _too_ limply—to his side, the fingers contorted in unnatural, freakish angles. The last touch in this morbid chef-d'oeuvre was obviously meant to be the highlight of the piece: the two slices starting from the corners of the man's lips and going up and up his cheeks until he was smiling a bloody smile from ear to ear.

And then, there was this _stench_...

Sergeant Steffen's body had been found in the early hours of the morning by some woman who had come down to empty her chamber pot. His bloodied corpse had been hung to a stone archway, and behind it, written in broad strokes of red, was a character of some foreign language Heinrich didn't know. He creased his eyes, trying to make sense of the crimson inscription.

“It's an old word for 'tiger',” said Hester. “Desert Tiger. That's what they call that king of theirs.”

“King?” Livia repeated, dubious. “They still pretend he's royalty?”

Gyorg shrugged. “Well, he's overthrown the king of Cygnus and killed all of the other lords who scrambled over to claim the throne. I guess he did earn the right to the title.”

He got a swift hit to the head from Cole in reply. “Don't let the higher-ups hear you say things like that,” he growled. “You'll make all of us look like damn rebel sympathizers.”

There were more murmurs from the soldiers and civilians who had assembled behind. Heinrich rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out a loud exhalation. Morale was already low for the men and women of the city guard, and the number of citizens who believed the rebels to be a serious threat was growing every day. Such a spectacle really wasn't needed.

“Stop gawking and get him down!” Heinrich snapped. Gyorg and Livia, along with a few other guards, moved to do as he asked, but Cole and Hester only regarded him coldly, not moving a muscle. Heinrich bristled, irritated that they would ignore such a perfectly reasonable command, and stared back with a similarly icy gaze.

“Get to it!” he ordered, glaring at them until they finally relented. As they worked to bring the corpse down, Heinrich's stormy mood mellowed, leaving only a grim sense of foreboding.

More trouble was brewing on the horizon. And if his feeling was true, he was to be stuck right in the middle of it all.

* * *

When Heinrich was finally given his leave by Captain Marius, the blue of the sky had already begun to yield to the soft orange of the evening. He and the members of his squad had spent the early parts of the morning carting off Sergeant Steffen's corpse back to the garrison, and then most of the afternoon dealing with the fallout of the man's murder. The other soldiers had been enraged by the sight of his mangled body, but Heinrich had also noted an undercurrent of fear beneath that anger. The rebels had sent the city guard a bloody warning, the first of many, they presumed.

Still, Heinrich _did_ wonder why a mere sergeant—especially one who had just been ordered out of the affair by his superiors—had been chosen as the carrier of their grim message. Was the man just terribly unlucky, or was there more to it that it seemed? They had searched the deceased Sergeant's lodgings, in hopes of discovering some clues, but to Heinrich's great exasperation, there had been nothing. There was no sign of struggle in the rundown apartment, and even after perusing the dead man's belongings, they had found no hint that something odd linked Steffen to Lord Garland's bloodthirsty supporters.

Sighing, Heinrich brought an absentminded gaze to the sky above. Judging from the position of the sun, he could still catch the children before they went home if he headed to Isla's clinic right away. A despondent sound escaped his mouth again; even the promise of a few hours of rest could not raise his spirits. He wished he could shove this whole affair somewhere in the back of his mind, never to be heard of again, but since lines of command could not be ignored, Captain Marius had all but made this impossible with a single order, one he had made so offhandedly even...

“Heiss!” a voice shouted from behind. Heinrich turned on his heel, sighing as he saw just who was approaching him. The four members of his squad had also left the decrepit building that had once been Steffen's home. Gyorg in particular was grinning from ear to ear. “I think congratulations are in order, _Sergeant._ ”

The last word made Heinrich scowl, being a sore reminder of all the additional difficulties the promotion had dumped on his shoulders. Gyorg, however, remained unaware of his new superior's misgivings, that smug smirk still plastered on his ruddy features. Surprisingly, the older man bore no grudge against Heinrich for the incident with the slave trader. The man was just _that_ affable, apparently.

“The Captain gave us the rest of the day off to celebrate your promotion, sir,” Livia continued. She also seemed unusually giddy. “Let's all go for a drink!”

“Hear, hear!” Gyorg roared in approval, while Hester gave a curt nod—as usual, that was the extent of her emotional display. Only Cole appeared completely uninterested; the man was leaning on a wall with his head tilted down, his eyes peering up at them from under the shadows cast by his brows.

Heinrich looked at his four new subordinates, his gaze eventually setting on Gyorg and Livia's expectant faces. Their friendly suggestion left him hesitant. His position dictated that he should strengthen his ties to them by any means possible - not to mention, bars and taverns were places of choice to find information about any bounties Victor might have placed on his head. But, Heinrich's mind argued, would that not be just a waste of precious time? After all, once he'd finished putting the necessary conditions into place, he would flee from Skalla with the children, leaving no evidence that a man named Heiss and two boys named Stocke and Mattie had lived in the city in the first place.

“Go celebrate with a drink if you must,” Heinrich said. “I have other matters to attend to.”

Gyorg and Livia's smiles turned sour, but they were tactful enough to say nothing more. The salute they gave him as he left, however, was slightly disdainful. As he turned to leave, Heinrich hoped they would find within themselves the means to pull their act together for the brief time when he would be forced to lead them. If not... well, his fate would soon cease to intertwine with theirs anyway. He'd only have to tolerate their cheek until then. It wouldn't that difficult, really; he had years of practise with Victor, after all.

* * *

As always, the moment Heinrich had put one foot inside Isla's clinic, he was greeted by the terrible stench of blood and the odours of other unpleasant body matters (he wasn't keen on elaborating on just what it might have been). He stepped out of the lobby and into the area where most of the healers busied themselves. His eyes swept across the rows of beds, tables and assorted equipment, searching for Ernst and Eruca among the other workers.

“Oh! Mr. Heiss!”

One of the healers was moving toward him, deftly making her way in-between all the cots and other furniture. Once she was closer he could see her thin, lined face and the droopy, but still bright grey eyes. That was Roslin, the woman who owned the clinic alongside Isla, and the first person he had met upon waking up after the spider's attack some two years ago.

“Madam,” he said, tilting his head in greeting.

Heinrich watched her reaction with curious eyes and, as he expected, she stiffened, closing her mouth in a tight line before answering, “Good day, Mr. Heiss. I see you finished work early. Are you here to see your boys?”

 _What else could I be doing here?_ Heinrich thought, fighting not to roll his eyes. Roslin was a good woman, if prone to say such inane things. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out more like a dejected grunt. “I've been promoted, and my superior saw fit to give me my leave this evening and the rest of the day tomorrow.”

She responded with a bright smile. “Oh! Congratulations! I'm sure Stockie and Mattie will be delighted to hear that!”

 _Stockie?!_ He prayed Roslin would never think to use this nickname to Ernst's face. “I'm sure they will. I was wondering whether or not Isla would let them come home early today, for the occasion?”

“Oh! Follow me, we'll ask her right away!”

She promptly took off, and Heinrich followed after her, pointedly not looking at the glassy-eyed stares the patients gave him as he passed by their beds. Soon, he could see Ernst's lanky form from afar as the boy leaned over an old woman with red, blotchy spots on her skin. Although she must have been quite in pain, a gentle smile graced her lips as Ernst spoke to her. A bit further away, Heinrich could make out the outline of Eruca. She and another young healer were on washing duty, and the two were talking to each other in hushed tones, their arms immersed in a basin full of murky water.

Both Ernst and Eruca were reasonably talented as healers, Heinrich believed, but to his great puzzlement, only Ernst could use magic to treat wounds. His sister, normally the most talented of the two when it came to magical arts, could not cast healing spells for her life. Much like her dear old uncle, in fact. Heinrich was well-versed on many kinds of magic (besides casting elemental spells, he could distinctly remember that one of his hobbies as a boy was practising paralysis and poison hexes on a few unlucky sewer critters), but even now, after so many years of trying, he never managed to divert any ounce of his Mana to such uses.

“Stocke! Mattie!” Roslin finally called out, and the siblings turned their faces toward her the sound of her voice. “Your father is here!”

Heinrich could not see Eruca's expression from this distance, but Ernst's face broke into that all too familiar half-grin.

“Father! What are you doing here?”

Soon, a weary Heinrich found himself explaining the situation to the two children. To his great surprise (and embarassment), they reacted to his accomplishment with boisterous enthusiasm, Eruca even latching herself to him in a hug. Roslin and a few patients followed suit with their own congratulations, and soon everybody was clapping their hands. The whole thing left Heinrich red-faced and stuttering.

"You're not working tomorrow?" Ernst said after Heinrich was finished speaking. "Good. Finally you got some time off without having to go through a near-death experience."

“Brother!” Eruca chided, rolling her eyes.

“Guess we should ask Isla for a day off so we can all have a nice family holiday, right?” Ernst said. “Maybe we can all pretend we all got some terribly contagious disease—”

“You make me sound like a slave-driver,” came a dry voice from behind. Isla had strolled up to them. There was a vaguely amused glint in her gaze. “Worse, you make it appear as though I overwork children.”

“You _do_ overwork us,” Ernst shot back. Anyone who wasn't familiar with him would think he was perfectly serious, but Heinrich could see how his eyes had creased into a subtle smile.

“Well,” Isla said, “I'm not cruel enough to keep a family apart for such a joyful event.” She turned to address the healers surrounding Heinrich and the children. “If any of you want to give more of your time tomorrow to let Stocke and Mattie spend the day with their father, I'll be grateful.”

To Heinrich's surprise, all gave their assent. It was evident these people held both Ernst and Eruca in great regard. Perhaps out of fondness for the two children, some of them even went to a bemused Heinrich, offering handshakes and sincere words of congratulation.

"You guys," Ernst said in a sheepish mumble. Under Heinrich's incredulous stare, one of the healers, a stout boy who appeared just a little older than Ernst himself, captured him in a headlock, ruffling the boy's dull brown hair. Ernst's other coworkers roared with laughter at his growls of protest, but Heinrich could not see the humour in the situation, only thinking of the blond showing at the roots. How wonderful, he realized dryly. They would have to waste more precious funds on another bottle of dye soon.

“I can come in for a bit tomorrow you need it, Isla,” Eruca's voice sounded above the chatter. Heinrich focused his attention on her to divert his mind from darker thoughts.

“Everything will be fine here, Matt,” she replied. Her assorted jewellery gave a silvery clinging sound as she bended over to look Eruca in the eye. “Use that time wisely. Be a family for once.”

Her words sent an unexpected twinge of forlornness through Heinrich. _Be a family,_ he thought dully, watching the children with a hollow gaze; Ernst had now wrestled his out of the older boy's grip, and Eruca was chuckling at something Isla had said. _Were we one just to begin with?_

* * *

In the following morning, Heinrich rose before the sun rather than break his usual routine. After retrieving the White Chronicle from under the loose plank where it was always hidden for the night, he passed on tiptoes by the bed Ernst and Eruca shared, then thrust the old book in a leather bag alongside his other personal belongings. He adjusted a large brimmed hat on his head (to protect himself from the scorching sun, yes, but to also keep his features as shadowed as possible) and headed outside, hoisting over his shoulder the clay jug that would contain the water they'd need for the day.

Once outside, Heinrich made for the nearest market at a brisk pace; when he would reach it, the streets would already be bustling with merchants peddling their wares and Skallan men and women willing to brave the early morning to get the freshest goods. In this swelling tide of people, Heinrich would go unnoticed, appearing to be just another citizen shopping for daily supplies. But here, with a few well-placed questions, and a number of even more well-placed coins, he'd find something far more valuable that a couple of ripe fruits and freshly baked bread.

Here, a carpet merchant was complaining to a fretful-looking lady about desert brigands striking the trade routes; there, a weary traveller was showing his trinkets to a few impressionable children—Thaumatech-based toys that he'd won from a Alistellian engineer, he pretended. A bit further away—and Heinrich's ears perked at that—a group of men dressed in the murky yellowed brown of the city guard were arguing about the state of the continent up north. The Alistellians had broke through Granorg's lines of defence with state-of-the-art technologies, one insisted, while another disagreed, stating instead that civil unrest inside Granorg itself had weakened the kingdom. The king had gone mad, he claimed, seeing enemies everywhere within his realm, and the bodies of traitors supposedly littered the streets of the capital.

“He's searching for the people hiding his brother, you see?” the guard was saying. “He's kidnapped the royal children and they haven't found 'im yet. He's got to have some accomplices covering his tail.”

"You believe that crock about kidnapping children?" another soldier said. "The guy probably butchered them, then fled to Alistel. That's what I would do, anyway."

“That'd be dumb, the best would be to keep the kids alive as leverage if things go south.”

“Not if you'd want the throne for yourself. With the kids dead, the king's lost his heirs... and since the common folk already hates his guts...”

“Aw, just shut up!” a third guard grumbled. His uniform showed that he was a corporal. “Who gives a crap about some foreign royalty? They sit on their pretty, perfumed asses all day while we cook in our armours all day long. So screw them, I say.”

His outburst cooled off his subordinates' heads, apparently, as they quickly changed topics afterwards. By then, Heinrich had realized how long he'd just been standing there, and he began to make his way home, blending in with the growing crowd yet again.

When he finally returned home, Ernst and Eruca were already awake. They came down upon the food he'd bought like only a pair of ravenous teenagers could. Once they were finished, the three of them sat together to sip a cup of traditional Cygnan mint tea.

Their afternoon was not much more eventful. The children spoke to each other in soft tones while Heinrich lounged in the only comfortable seat they owned, reading his dog-eared copy of _Species Plantarum_ with distracted eyes. Finally, after an apologetic Eruca made her exit, heading to Isla's clinic to see if the Satyros needed her help, Ernst came up to him, looking oddly serious all of a sudden.

"I want to go to the market to buy something for Ruca," he said. He sounded as if he would not take no for an answer. As Heinrich raised one inquisitive eyebrow, the boy added, "Something to give her on New Year's Day."

Heinrich followed him outside without voicing any objection. Besides, when was the last time he and Ernst had gone on such a trip, like they used to, so many years ago? In reality, it hadn't been so long, but because of Heinrich's repeated uses of the White Chronicle, the last occurrence he could recall happened almost a decade ago...

Very quickly, Ernst found what he had set out to find. Heinrich could not help but give a curious look to his nephew as the boy approached him, holding a small, well-worn bow that had manifestly seen better days.

“She'll love it,” Ernst told him. Heinrich felt that familiar pang in his heart as he noticed how deep his voice was getting. The sound of it was so unfamiliar he almost had some trouble hearing it above the hubbub of the street market. “Trust me, she's really not the kind to want dolls or ribbons for her hair. Not that she's got much hair these days.”

Ernst handed the bow over to his uncle, and Heinrich let out a low humming sound as his fingers traced over the intricacies of the old wood. The merchant whose wares they were browsing was trying to catch his attention again by babbling on about the quality of his products, but Heinrich shushed him with a glare.

“She's a little girl,” Heinrich said stubbornly.

Ernst sighed. “You really don't know how she is, do you? You'd think she would have more trouble impersonating a boy if she really was the delicate little flower you make her out to be.” He'd said the latter part under his breath so that only he and his uncle would hear it.

Looking into the boy's blue-green gaze, Heinrich was suddenly reminded of the children's mother; how would she have reacted to her daughter being gifted a weapon? He could barely remember the woman, but he believed she had been rather frivolous and fond of things like dresses and jewellery and any other fancy items that would send his dear brother in quite in a rush to buy. The man had always been so desperate for any scrap of affection he could pry from his queen.

"So, are we going to buy it or not?" Ernst said. His voice had taken a curt turn.

Heinrich winced, but he quickly regained his composure. “How would she even learn to use it?” he said, absentmindedly plucking the string.

There was a little irritated sound from the boy. “Amir's already promised he'd show her.”

“You've obviously had this in mind for a long time, then,” Heinrich said. “Why would you involve me at all?”

Ernst's stare was surprisingly cold. "Do you really need that much convincing to buy a gift for your own _daughter?"_ The last word sounded more like a caustic sneer, Ernst's tone darkly reminding Heinrich of all the doubts that had lain root in his heart recently.

“N-no, of course not,” Heinrich's response came in a distraught mutter. “By all means, I'll help you pay for it.”

 _“Good.”_ Ernst's natural cordiality had returned... outwardly, at least. Heinrich watched the boy as he started to arrange the purchase with the weapon merchant, feeling unusually silent—subdued, even. And when Ernst turned to give him a satisfied grin, Heinrich could still not think of anything to say, only offering him a feeble smile in return.

* * *

In a way, Heinrich was grateful for the time spent investigating Sergeant Steffen's murder. Occupying his mind with this case—and preparing their upcoming flight from Skalla—chased away all thoughts that were useless to these goals in the long run, keeping his head clear and his heart free of worries.

Of course it would have been easier if he hadn't been stuck with such incompetent subordinates. Captain Marius had graced him with a few new recruits to serve under him alongside his old squadmates, but while they were all swift to act when ordered to hack and maim and strike, they lacked all the subtlety, all the finesse needed for information gathering. When Heinrich had shared these observations with Marius, the overworked captain had flown into a brief, gruff rage, and informed him that he would have to make do with what he had been given. Heinrich was only a mere sergeant, after all.

The captain's outburst was uncalled for, in Heinrich's mind. It only drove home the point that he needn't trouble himself with the affairs of his peers of the city guard. He would find the key to this mystery if it was asked of him, but he wouldn't let it concern him more than necessary. It was to be a distraction—something that would only serve to entertain his bored mind while he was stuck here.

Heinrich's own comrades had come up to the same conclusion, apparently. As the celebration of the New Year grew nearer, they began to approach work with a lack of professionalism that would have shocked him had he been not similarly so unconcerned with the issue. It was almost difficult to tell that one of their own had been brutally murdered only a few weeks ago.

When New Year's Day was finally upon them, Heinrich accepted Gyorg's enthusiastic offer for once (he was surprised the man was even still _trying_ , god, his friendliness was nothing short of miraculous), and went off to drink with his subordinates. It was a good opportunity to gather some information on the happenings both in and outside the city, he reasoned. Still, Heinrich soon realized that the only thing that would happen if he stayed here was a ruptured eardrum or two from the sheer volume of the shouts and songs gushing from everywhere in the tavern. And so, he offered a blunt farewell to Gyorg, then made a hasty retreat.

Heinrich believed he would find some well-deserved peace and quiet back home, but it was far from the case. The tenants who lived next door to him had offered a keg of Alistellian ale to their landlady in celebration of the new year. Mrs. Cecile, who Heinrich had so far taken for an old, harmless little thing, had retaliated by raiding her dearly departed husband's cabinet to find a few bottles of a terribly potent traditional Cygnan liquor. Next thing Heinrich knew, half of the neighbourhood had come over to drink and feast at the old woman's table.

The tiny building Mrs. Cecile owned was thus soon overcrowded by friends, family and strangers alike. Whether she minded the invasion of her home, Heinrich did not know; by now, she was so completely drunk she accepted kisses from anybody, be it from an acquaintance or not.

Unlike her, Heinrich resisted the pressure of his peers and refused to drink... at first. As more and more people flooded the surrounding street and every part of the old lady's home, Heinrich was surprised to find that Ernst and Eruca had escaped from the gathering, only to return with a few guests of their own. Alongside a number of the street rats they called friends came Isla, Amir and Roslin. Strangely enough, the latter showed none of her characteristic coldness, instead coming over to a baffled Heinrich with a bottle of fine Granorgite wine. In response to Amir's overenthusiastic prodding and Roslin's oddly pleading gaze, Heinrich had opened the bottle, feeling it was necessary, at the very least, that he tasted the good lady's offering.

It didn't exactly explain why he had accepted three more cups, however. It almost seemed as if Amir and Roslin were behind some sort of sick conspiracy, Heinrich's fuzzy mind speculated, one with nebulous, but probably not-so-admirable goals.

Fighting back his dizziness, Heinrich rose from his seat, prompting a few protests from Roslin. She had been in the middle of serving him another cup of wine - clearly, his theory had some sense to it. Heinrich scanned the drunken mass of dinner guests in order to find his nephew and niece. The two children were conspicuous with their absences. Heinrich supposed a flock of inebriated adults wasn't the kind of company they enjoyed.

Heinrich staggered through the crowd, leaving the stifling heat of Mrs. Cecile's tenement house. On his way out, he sensed a whiff of cold air. Someone had left the front door open, apparently. He made his way outside and looked at the street, full of men and women singing raunchy numbers and children running about. Ernst and Eruca were amongst a small group that surrounded Amir. The young Satyros held Eruca's new bow in his hands, and it seemed to he was teaching the children how to use it. Most of the little girls were watching him with dewy eyes, but Eruca appeared immune to his charms, focusing all of her attention on the weapon while she chewed down her lower lip, her face showing all the intense concentration a twelve-year-old girl could muster.

Ernst seemed equally oblivious to the fact that the rest of the girls instead aimed their starstruck gazes at him. The boy had been in the throes of puberty for some years now, but he never spared any thought to the matters of the heart. Both children took after Heinrich in that aspect, it seemed. It made him strangely proud.

“Mr. Heiss!” came a voice nearby.

Isla was sitting on the front steps, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. "You came to enjoy the night air, too?" said the Satyros.

Heinrich let out a wordless response as he seated himself next to the girl.

“It might be good for my health, yes,” a smiling Heinrich said. “And I have to admit I'm not too fond of social events. I really do hate crowds.”

Isla beamed back at him.

“Then, you would have hated the parties we had back home. Just for my birthday some years ago, there were about fifty of us.” Her eyes grew fond with nostalgia. “My father's troupe played for us and my aunt sang, and there was this girl, I think her name was Liese, she danced in front of everyone and you wouldn't believe how good she was. One of my cousins fell in love with her on the spot, it was all rather adorable.” This time, her gaze was obviously pained.

“You miss them,” Heinrich said while she tightened her hold on the steaming cup, her eyes now hidden under her bangs, “your family, I mean.”

There was a few strained seconds of silence. “Yes, I do,” Isla finally murmured.

Heinrich rested his chin on his clasped hands.

“They probably miss you too,” he eventually said, glancing down at her. In response, Isla gave him such a miserable look it suddenly seemed to him as if she had become several years younger. She was always nothing but coldly efficient with her patients—once, a group of mercenaries had brought in a man whose arm had nearly been torn off and she had not even batted an eyelash at the gory sight—so much that Heinrich had thus believed her to be a great deal older than her appearance suggested. Now, he wasn't so sure.

“Maybe you should go home?” Heinrich added, somehow unnerved by the distress now written all over her face.

Isla shook her head. “I can't. I'm a failure.”

"A failure," Heinrich repeated. A sudden gust of apprehension swept over him. She was looking at him, and not for the first time it seemed to him that her gold-flecked green eyes could literally see past his flesh and gaze at the mangled soul within.

“I believe you might be the only person on the continent who might understand my plight, Mr. Heiss,” she said, eyes never wavering. “Considering your... _condition_.”

Heinrich abruptly stood up, body tense in disgust and anger. Her vague, but ominous statements were starting to grate on his nerves. For a moment, he just wanted to leave her be, alone to dwell on her misery, but curiosity won out and he stayed.

“How do you know about that? What _are_ you?”

Isla just took a sip out her cup. With every passing second of silence, Heinrich felt the acute need to escape from her company grow a little more; still, despite how much he dreaded to hear what she was about to say, he found that he could not move.

“I'm a Shaman. I can see the souls of the living and the deceased. And to me... you appear to be a soulless body. A dead man walking.”

Anger flared within Heinrich. “ _You_ —”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have phrased it like that.” She grimaced. “It's just... I found it more frightening than I would have thought. I would have never imagined I'd meet someone like you one day. There's a world between hearing about it and seeing it with my own eyes.”

“So you know what I am?”

"My people have known about the Ritual since its very beginnings.” Now it was she who was unwilling to meet his eyes. “Our chief, Barranca, vowed to your ancestor, the last Emperor, that we would watch over your family to make sure it is carried out without fault.”

“I've never heard of any Satyros interfering with our affairs,” Heinrich said. “Not in my lifetime, anyway.”

Isla sighed. “Our current generation has their hands full with our own troubles. We've left something that should have been the burden of an entire continent on the shoulders of only one family.” Her gaze rose to meet his, and the self-loathing was evident in her eyes. _“Your_ family. I always found it to be the greatest of aberrations.”

Isla's admission shocked him into silence. For a moment, Heinrich let his eyes wander; the street was still crowded with party-goers and children running about and screeching with glee.

“Do I... do I really look like a dead man to you?”

She seemed as surprised as he was by the words that left his lips. “Well, I can sense _something_ —like this tiny flicker of life inside of you, but then there's a strange sense of _disconnect_ between that piece of soul and your body. It's as if it doesn't belong there. It clearly wants to get out. If it wasn't for that intense flare of Mana anchoring it to your body—”

“I see,” Heinrich cut her off, his voice strangling in his throat.

“But then there's something beautiful about it, too. The Mana that flows within your body, it burns so... _brightly_. Everyone in your family has this spark, this brilliant, brilliant emerald light, but _you_...”

Her words made Heinrich shudder, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach for him, looking suddenly concerned.

“You shouldn't be ashamed of it. If only you could see it...” Isla's face brightened up. “Yes, _yes!_ Perhaps you could. Your bloodline is said to be able to master magical arts that are out of reach for normal humans. Perhaps I could teach you. It could be one way for me to pay you back for the damage done by my people's inaction.” Her voice was soft, apologetic.

Heinrich met Isla's eyes, and her pale gaze lit a flicker of _something_ in Heinrich's chest, a feeling he knew but could not name. A feeling he'd rarely felt since he'd been saddled up with the White Chronicle, all these decades ago. “What I want is for the Ritual to stop being necessary.” he said, suddenly bold. “No one will die for the sake of the world, ever again.” _Especially not me._ “Soon, I'll run to Alistel with Stocke and Mattie.” Isla frowned, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Heinrich continued, a newly-born fervour bolstering up his words. “There must be something we can find to stop the Mana from disappearing from this continent.”

“The knowledge of my people might help you too,” Isla said, pensive. “You should go to Celestia, too.”

Heinrich looked at her, frowning, but Isla turned her eyes away, her cheeks pinkening.

“I'm sorry, I can't take you there,” she said miserably. “I told you. I can't go back. I'm a failure.”

Heinrich forced his gaze on her again, insistent, and her shoulders drooped down.

“Being a Shaman is something you are from the moment of your birth. I... I did not want this kind of life. I never wanted to.”

“So you ran from home?” Heinrich said, fighting to hide his uneasiness.

“Amir was the catalyst I needed,” Isla continued. “I had... a terrible fight with my father, and Amir was the excuse I used for leaving. My father must hate me so much now. The Shaman who abandoned her people and her duty...”

Heinrich scoffed; her defeatist tone left him oddly irate. “Funny, how some children underestimate how important they are to their parents,” he said, a bit of exasperation creeping in his voice. Isla's usually sharp features slackened in confusion. “It had always been said that parents—well, good parents at least,” he added as he thought with a barely repressed shudder of Victor, “usually think the world of their children. Your poor father is probably terrified out of his wits. He must go to sleep every night fearing someone will find your dead body rotting in some ditch miles away from home.”

“You... you really believe so?”

Heinrich rolled his eyes. “Of course! Get a hold of yourself! Who are you and what have you done with the woman who spent the last few years scolding me like I'm some witless child?”

Isla gaped at him, apparently driven silent by his admonition. Slowly, her distraught expression gave way to a stubborn, almost haughty frown. “You have the strangest manner of comforting people, Mr. Heiss,” she said, deadpan. But her eyes glistened with unsaid humour. “Still, I'll think on your offer. I've always wanted to take Amir to Celestia, after all.”

* * *

Something seemed to change after that, and Heinrich went back to his plans of escape with renewed ardour, a new wind sustaining his sails. Ernst and Eruca had become ecstatic when he told them Isla and Amir would follow them on their journey, their elation turning into amazement upon learning that they would probably go to Celestia before heading to Alistel.

Isla also visited them more often, resolute in her attempts to teach Heinrich how to see the pathways of Mana.

“It's not something that you truly see,” she had once said as they went out one evening, her eyes sweeping across the crowd amassed in the street just beyond them. “You _feel_ it. Your Mana is like a trail of flame wrapped around your soul like a spider's web, and each and every string of this web is pulsating constantly. That sound resonates through your chest—you sense it, don't you? When you cast a spell, you pluck those strings like you would with the chord of a musical instrument. Can you hear everyone around you doing the same?”

The sensation was similar enough to the state of mind he'd find himself in whenever he cast his Vanish spell. “Yes. Yes, I think I can hear it.”

She'd smiled at him then. "Good. Perhaps it will even help you gain access to that excess of Mana that tethers on the outskirts of your soul. It's almost as if you don't notice it exists. Did you ever think of using it?"

That did surprise Heinrich. "No, I never did."

“Your body has amassed an astounding amount of Mana.” Isla's face had grown suddenly stern. “Since it is not truly yours to use, I wouldn't recommend spending it too much, but if you ever find yourself in a situation where your survival depends on it, well...”

Even in his daily shifts, Heinrich found himself practising Isla's teachings in the long hours where he was forced on patrol duty. He'd heard his subordinates snicker behind him, sometimes. Heinrich had been rather amused to find that they apparently believed he had recently joined some sort of cult. He did not correct them; their delusions served as an occasional source of entertainment.

On this particular evening, Heinrich came home late, dead tired, but strangely content. He had barely set one foot in the kitchen when Isla and Eruca burst into protest, pointing out that his fatigue would only make him clumsy—and thus a complete menace to the preparation of supper. He'd gone outside without any fuss, then slumped on the steps, basking in the last warm rays of the sun as it lowered on the horizon. After a while, he heard the sound of someone dropping next to him; Ernst had come to sit with him.

“You see, Eruca did enjoy her gift,” the boy said.

Heinrich replied by a noncommittal grunt. A longer answer would have taken too much energy.

“On your side of things, you seem to be making friends,” Ernst continued, and even before Heinrich had cracked one eye open to glance at him, he knew the boy was grinning; the smirk was evident in the very tone of his voice. “Amir, Isla, even Roslin... you're getting popular.”

“Well, in truth, Roslin was just acting very peculiarly,” Heinrich clarified, “I think she tried to get me drunk. I haven't the foggiest why she would do that.”

“Did she really?” Ernst said, suddenly sporting the strangest of expressions. “My god... it's worse than I thought... Poor Roslin.” He muttered the last two sentences under his breath, his face showing a strange mixture of amusement and pity.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Ernst said, his lips still curled into that odd little smile. “I think she wanted to cheer you up.”

Heinrich could feel a dry chuckle coming up. “Why? So she could get to see my _dazzling_ smile?”

Ernst echoed his laugh. Suddenly, the little boy whom he had seen grow up in Castle Granorg was back with him, instead of that strangely aloof dark-haired teenager with whom he had been sharing a roof for the last three years.

“I'd say your smile is the kind that would most likely send little children bursting into tears, Father.”

Heinrich gave a little snort, resisting the urge to muss up that mop of brown hair. Still, there was part of him that still that reeled at the _'Father'_ part of Ernst's jape. A strange, unpleasant feeling always seized him whenever they used that word to refer to him.

“Is that so?” he shot back, trying to dispel that uneasiness by rising to Ernst's baiting. As the boy only stared at him, smug, Heinrich addressed the biggest, most manic grin he could muster to a pair of passing little girls, who instantly—and unsubtly—picked up the pace.

Ernst threw back his head, his chest rumbling with laughter, and Heinrich could feel himself chuckling as well. He thought back on the words he had said to Gyorg; indeed, it had been far too long since he'd found himself having fun.

“What are you two doing?” Eruca's voice sounded from the door. “What's so funny?”

Ernst snorted. "Nothing. I guess I'm just a little disturbed that Father can really scare people with a smile."

 _"What?_ " The poor girl put her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes. "Well, anyway, dinner is ready, you two," she said huffily. "Come quickly, before it gets cold."

Heinrich and Ernst exchanged a secret grin as they followed after her.

* * *

The food was rather bland, for all of Eruca and Isla's efforts, but for once Heinrich was just happy to have something to put in his stomach other than the disgusting rations he was given as a soldier.

The warmth of the soup made him sleepier, though, and he listened to the surrounding sounds with a inattentive ear: Ernst's, Eruca's and Isla's animated conversation, the racket of the neighbours next door as they argued, and there, now that was strange, a group of people were climbing up the stairs, their heavy boots stomping on the old wood steps and—

The door swung open, and Heinrich had barely the time to jump from his seat when a group of soldiers erupted into the room, blades drawn and ready.

“You—” Heinrich began, unbelieving. The faces were familiar—disturbingly so. Hester was glaring at him, tightly griping a sword pointed in his direction. Livia was nearly shaking on her feet, almost as if she couldn't quite accept the fact that she was currently aiming a weapon at his face. Gyorg just smiled his usual smile; he was the only one whose sword stayed in its scabbard. And at the front of the group stood Cole, his ice blue eyes so focused, so devoid of any feeling it sent a chill down Heinrich's spine.

Heinrich managed to draw himself to his full height. “What is the meaning of this? What gives you the right to invade my home and privacy?”

Behind Cole, Gyorg let out a whistle. He was now leering at Isla. "So that's why you never looked twice at the girls when we went out wenching. Who would have thought you were into bestiality?"

Low chuckles came from the other soldiers, and Ernst tensed, a low hiss escaping his mouth. _“You bastard—_ ” he said, advancing toward Gyorg and Cole, hands curling into fists. Isla stopped with with a stern glare.

“Don't, Stocke,” she said. “This isn't worth it.”

"Listen to your stepmomma, boy," Gyorg said. "We're just here to drag your sorry old man back to the garrison so he can answer for his crimes."

“Crimes?” Ernst and Eruca said almost simultaneously, while Isla's frown deepened.

“He would never—” Eruca breathed.

“He's killed our previous superior,” Hester spat. “He's a goddamn murderer.”

"That's impossible!" Eruca cried.

"I don't believe you," Ernst said in a growl. "Where's your proof?"

“We've found some evidence that your dear old dad had dealings with the Desert Lord's supporters," Gyorg answered. "Thanks to his intel, the rebels we captured even managed to escape.” His expression turned into the perfect mask of attrition. “Poor Sergeant Steffen found out about this. I bet it wasn't that hard for you to deal with him, right, Heiss? You never liked him much, anyway.”

"That's preposterous!" Heinrich shouted. "I don't give a damn about whoever runs this city. Why would I throw my lot with some lord with delusions of grandeur?"

“You tell me.” Gyorg shrugged. “Or rather you'll tell our friends back at the garrison. They have a thousand ways to make you talk, after all. I'm sure they'll be happy to—”

“I can't let you do that,” a cold female voice cut him off.

Isla placed herself in front of Heinrich. Cole's sword was only inches away from her face. Although Heinrich could not see her expression, the reactions of a few of his traitorous squadmates—Livia especially—hinted that it was probably not pleasant.

“Don't do that, sweetheart,” Gyorg said. His tone was infuriatingly paternal. “Interfering with our work means we'd have to arrest you too.”

"Things are more complicated than they appear," Isla said, ignoring him. "You don't know what you're doing. Mr. Heiss must leave Skalla. The fate of the continent depends on it."

“Are you _deaf_ , goat girl?” Gyorg replied. “I just said he's a criminal. He betrayed our city to the rebels and sold out one of our comrades!”

Isla did not budge. “I don't believe you.”

Gyorg sighed, but Cole just let out a low, "Oh, for fuck's sake," and he took a step forward, grabbing Isla by one horn. Before anyone could do anything, he swung his sword.

And Isla fell—so quickly, so undramatically—just dropping on the ground like a stone, her hands going to her neck. And behind Heinrich came the shrieks, the yells, and Heinrich was screaming himself hoarse, launching himself toward Isla's convulsing form, but before he could reach her something rammed into him, and he was pushed against the hard wood of the floor.

Out of his dimming eyesight he could see Isla's face up close—so close. Tears were gathering by the corners of her gold-flecked green eyes, and her mouth, her mouth quivered, and she seemed to desperately want to say something, but only crimson trickled out of her lips. Her hands pressed against her neck, but the blood, the slow, steady flow of dark red would not stop, and Heinrich whimpered, his sight blurring with his own tears, his ears scorched by the cries of Ernst and Eruca and the sounds of them fighting—the men and women he had called _comrades_ had seized the children, and they screamed as they punched and kicked and bit their captors, who were themselves howling in pain.

There was a horrific noise as one clocked Eruca across the face, and the girl tumbled down, her head colliding against the ground with a sickening crunch. As Ernst screamed the name of his sister, Heinrich fought with all his might, and searched and searched the flux of Mana hidden under his flesh; it was here, he could feel it, touch it, but the pain and the horror submerged him and he lost it, the fiery threads flickering into nothingness. He screamed and shouted and howled, and god, why was he so weak? Why couldn't he do anything? Why had he not seen this coming? Why—

 _“Oh, god, someone shut him up!_ ” someone suddenly snapped, and for one split-second Heinrich saw the shadow of Cole's arm rising above him, and as it came down the world turned to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, a big thank you to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing!
> 
> Also, I'm really grateful for all the reviewers, anonymous or otherwise, who left a few words (or a Like on Tumblr) on this story. It's so sweet, and it gives me hope that I might be getting somewhere with this. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	10. Chapter 9 - Masks, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The days passed, each and every one indistinguishable from the one that came before.

Every morning, before the break of dawn, the overseers would burst inside the overcrowded shack to drag the men out of their cots, shouting and forcing them to make their way to the mine under the threat of the lash. The deed was easier said than done, as each slave was shackled to another, making their progression slow and cumbersome. The first days Heinrich had been detained here, he'd been chained to a quiet, sickly man whose body was constantly racked by coughing fits. Whenever he'd collapse to the ground, hacking and choking, Heinrich would be the one who would have to yank him to his feet. If the overseers were to find them, there'd be hell to pay, and Heinrich did not care to share another man's punishment.

_(He had had enough of the lash to fill nightmares for a lifetime.)_

The man was long gone now. One night, Heinrich had woken up to find the bedsheets they were forced to share stained with sweat, and the man mumbling and thrashing in his cot. When they had all been neatly lined up outside, the overseers had immediately noticed him as he shuddered on his spot and struggled to stay on his feet. They'd dragged him away from the line—taking care of keeping him within eyesight of the dazed slaves in their shackles—and then neatly lopped off his head from his body.

_(The bloody spot had taunted them for a good week, and only a sudden rush of summer rain had washed the red away from the pale sand.)_

It had also been one of the rare occasions where Heinrich had gotten a glimpse of the owner of the mine and his son. The two always hovered nearby whenever the men went to the mine, never coming too close, but on this particular morning, the duo had briskly made their way over to the supervisors who had killed the sickly slave, adding to the captive workers' growing uneasiness. The son was a grown man, with limbs thick as trunks, but Heinrich knew, for having seen his face once, that his features were smooth and surprisingly childlike. The father, in contrast, had a back hunching over like a broken tree, and he was even shorter than Heinrich himself. But whenever the old man was willing to put his foot down, it was his subordinates who seemed to shrink on the spot.

"What's the problem, sir?" one of the overseers had asked, his voice barely carrying over to where Heinrich stood. "He's been ill for a while, sir. He would have made the whole bunch sick too."

"Then, why do I find out about this now?" the old man had barked. "He could have contaminated all the others already, for what we know." There had been a pregnant pause, then he'd continued, snarling. "You know how slow the market is, these days, with all the fighting going on up north. I can't just afford to lose men so easily. Next time one gets sick, use your damn brains and keep him away from the others! Or kill him from the start, for God's sake!"

By then, the remaining overseers had not so gently commanded the chained workers to keep moving. Heinrich had followed suit, his gaze never leaving the ground (he would never take the chance of accidentally looking one of the overseers in the eye, he knew perfectly well what it would have earned him) but even then he hadn't been able to stop himself from glancing over to where the old man was berating his underlings. It had been hard to see from this distance, but the son's attention had been clearly on the line of slaves as it advanced. In the instant of an heartbeat, Heinrich had passed by him, and instinctively he had raised his head. Heinrich had found himself holding the younger man's gaze for a mere second, and he'd seen the son's pale eyes widen in clueless curiosity... then promptly, he had looked away as though Heinrich's scrutiny somehow frightened him. Heinrich's face had remained a perfect mask of indifference throughout the encounter. It was only when he was safely in the darkness of the mine that he had allowed himself a soft smirk, the first he'd felt gracing his lips in several months.

* * *

A possible epidemic had been thus averted, and life followed its course. And the slaves dug. With a pickaxe, with a heavy mace, with their own bare hands even. Each day, Heinrich's weary arms would raise the instrument above his head, repeating the motions until a fiery pain would start to scorch through his muscles. He had lost count of the times when the too thin skin on his palms (still scarred from that battle with the spider that had happened a thousand years ago) would break; the rocks would then be smeared with his blood. Heinrich would bite his tongue to keep himself from crying out—after all, the overseers were always watching, _always_.

_(And he would not give them any more reason to give in to their baser instincts; they were constantly on the prowl, like a pack of feral dogs, watching for any sign of weakness in their prey.)_

Once, they had made an example out of Heinrich, when he'd accidentally crushed two fingers of his right hand under a boulder. One moment, he had been trying to pry a loose piece of ore from the bedrock; the other, the world had gone blindingly white. When his sight has returned, he'd realized he'd been screaming and screaming, and he had tried to tear his eyes away from the sight of the bloody puddle accumulating under the rock, but the pain had been too raw, too _searing_ , to ignore. He had been all but certain that the bones had been ground to dust from the pressure and the weight. Two other slaves had pushed the rock off his hand as quickly as they could, but it had been too late. When two supervisors finally reached him, he had been reduced to incoherent pleading and sobs. And, trapped in a haze of pain, he had made the mistake of protesting when they'd tried to haul him back to his feet.

After throwing him outside and ripping the clothes off his back, they had made disparaging comments at the still fresh marks that already crisscrossed Heinrich's shoulders.

_(They incorrectly believed they'd been the ones to mark him that way, and so they jeered that they'd have to teach him how to behave from now on, their laughter mingling with the crack of the whip.)_

Heinrich had been on his best behaviour since then.

The overseers did not know that they were not the first. Before he had been brought here, the people back at the garrison had assiduously worked on him, searching for anything incriminating in-between the stubborn silences and the screams. _Where were the rebels now? What about their numbers? How did you communicate with them from inside the city? Are they planning an attack? What have you told them?_ they'd ask, flashing a knife and caressing his cheek with the cutting edge of the blade. At first, his pride kept his mouth shut, and he only glared at them, the only words leaving his lips forming questions of his own.

_(Were the children alright? Has Isla survived her wounds? Where have you sent them?)_

That had been his mistake.

Once they'd glimpsed that well-guarded worry, their smirks had grown, and they'd dug and dug in that figurative wound. They told him about some desecrated sack of flesh they'd dumped in the dunes as an offering to the vultures ( _"Killing her was a mistake, she would have fetched a good price. There might have been people with the same kind of sick taste as you, Heiss"_ ). And when the children's names escaped his lips in a fevered whisper, they'd started to circle around him like a group of scavengers, their words merely hinting while their grins alluded to something that was certainly far crueler than any of the stories they spun.

That had hushed Heinrich far more efficiently that any blow ever did.

From this point on, every sound they had managed to wrench out of him were the results of his body betraying him rather than the conscious products of his thoughts. They had never noticed, however, so gleeful they were that he was apparently responding to their treatments. They revelled in the torpor that clouded his eyes, blind to the infinitesimal drop of hatred hidden by the apathy.

That had been _their_ mistakes.

He'd built his shield upon layer upon layer of self constructions. Sergeant, Father, _Heiss_. The first strata he would allow them to see, to break; they weren't truly part of him anyway. And while they would rejoice in destroying the decoy pieces of his self, the parts he had to protect at all costs would stay safely hidden. Prince, Uncle, _Heinrich_. As long as he grasped these three aspects close to his heart, they would not have him.

When they finally relented and sold him off—in perfect secrecy, of course—to a copper mine somewhere to the east of Skalla, Heinrich polished his shield. When his hands scraped against the rock, he would remember the cool comfort of fingers plunging in the fresh black earth of his now long-lost garden. When at night the proximity and the stench and the noise of the other slaves triggered a bout of inexplicable panic, he'd recall the peaceful solitude of the castle library and the nostalgic smells of old paper and burning candles. When sometimes in the sizzling oppression of the tunnels he feared he would just drop dead, his existence forgotten by the outside world, he'd see in his mind's eye Ernst's grinning face and the boy flinging his foil in a parry before preparing himself for the riposte.

He would retreat to the deepest trenches of his self. He would stay concealed in the confines of his memories. He would redirect the humiliation—not to fuel his anger as he once had before, but to a growing will to survive. And he would get out of here.

_('And then it'll be my turn, my turn, my turn,' the will of his vengeance would say, always creeping to his mind unbidden.)_

* * *

Still, the constant pain and fatigue made it impossible to use conventional means to cast spells. The Cygnan slave traders, upon years of practise, were aware of this reality, and so every slave who was known to be capable of magic was branded with some sort of symbol above the heart. Those unfortunate enough to bear this mark were tasked with the most arduous chores, and were granted only a very few hours of rest. Under these circumstances, an average person would not be able to regenerate their Mana.

_(It was a death sentence as sure and swift as a king's command.)_

But Heinrich—although a part of him still loathed to admit it—belonged to a grand bloodline, one that had been specially bred to manipulate the very fabric of magic. He had always been _far_ from average.

The work in the mine was tedious, but redundant enough for him to slip in some of the exercises Isla had taught him without being noticed by the overseers. At first, every time he would retreat within his mind—steadying his breaths, cutting himself off the thoughts and sensations of the outside world—he'd perceive nothing except the occasional flash of green flaring out of the corner of his eye. Heinrich was too stubborn to be deterred, and he persisted, sneaking in practises whenever he could—when he'd bring the mace down on yet another piece of rock, when his ears would ring from being shouted at after a long day, when he'd lay awake at night watching the moon through the hole in the roof directly above his cot—and yet he was no closer to finding that supposedly powerful reserve of Mana that Isla had glimpsed within him.

A kind of fevered hopelessness had started to creep inside Heinrich's heart—why had he believed the Satyros girl when she had no proof to support her claims?—and he had sunken to a crippling sense of despair when Isla's teachings finally proved true.

It had happened almost unexpectedly. The scorching heat of high summer had assaulted the quarry for a good week now, the stifling and heavy air inside the tunnels having already claimed the lives of many. Heinrich's head had swum all day, and a bout of dizziness had nearly sent him tumbling to the ground; he had managed to stop mid-fall by pushing himself off the bedrock with shaky hands.

Panting, he had cracked his eyes open, and fixed his hazy gaze on his hands as they fumbled against the dust and the rocks in the dark... and had been surprised to see see veins of green light pulsating alongside the pale scars marring his flesh. They blinked out of sight almost immediately afterwards, but it had been enough to send a thrill through his chest and a weary grin to his face.

Soon, whenever his eyes wandered to the other men slaving away in the tunnels, Heinrich would see the dull greyish threads of the Mana that burned inside their bodies. Their weary souls seemed to flicker in the darkness like will-o'-the-wisps. Amidst the shadows that draped the walls of stone, Heinrich would now find bright lights peppering the black. Tiny, pure gems of crystallized Mana like the ones that lit the Royal Hall back home, precious treasures he would then hide under his cot back at the slave-quarters. Under his feet, he'd feel a low hum, like the sounds of raging water—the flow of Mana that ran under the very earth, everywhere on the continent. Never had he noticed that phenomenon, even though it was so intrinsically entwined with his fate as a Sacrifice.

And in the nights, instead of weaving horrific memories into his nightmares, his mind would dream of Historia.

* * *

No one was concerned over the gradual disappearances of the rats that used to scuttle the grounds of the quarry.

Nor did they notice the numbers of dead desert critters—spiders, snakes, lizards—suddenly littering the surroundings of the slave-quarters. The harsh summer had already been deadly for man, it was easy to believe it had claimed another kind of casualty.

Heinrich did nothing to dissuade them from thinking otherwise.

He was lucky poison spells left so little discernible marks on their victims. Only a knowledgeable physician would be capable of telling the real cause of death, and the only healer who lived nearby was a fidgety young man who had no real competences other than a natural talent for crude healing spells. The quarry's real physician was a friend of the owner of the mine who only came once a month to inspect the stocks (in the end, that's all they were, _merchandise_ ) at the request of the old man. Heinrich was patiently waiting for the man's next visit. When he'd then leave, he would put the next part of his plans into motion.

For now, Heinrich's targets remained in the realm of the small. After all, nothing bad could come from a little experimentation. He was especially keen on seeing what would happen to a few other slaves who had the strange idea of eating some of the rats who had succumbed to his poison spells—would they become sick as well, he wondered? Another bizarre occurrence had taken place while Heinrich had been lying in his cot, holding a captured desert spider in hid hands. He had been utterly focused on the string of Mana quivering inside the tiny creature—observing it, manipulating it, _playing_ with it—when suddenly he had felt it _snap_ , like the chord of an instrument that had been stretched too tautly.

And the creature had dissolved in a pile of sand.

This new possibility had sent a ripple of excitement through Heinrich's skin—what sort of spell was _this?_ —but to his intense disappointment he found he could not repeat this accomplishment. Still, it did not matter; his plans had already been set in motion. He would have all the time in the world later on to study and perfect this strange ability.

Now, Heinrich's most important concern was to gather information. The times and lengths of the patrols, the amounts of supplies he could steal from for the long trek back to Skalla, the location of the keys and all of the other instruments that could help to get rid of the shackles, and of course, the safest way to the armoury—every shred of knowledge could make a difference between life and death. Heinrich had managed to whip a few of his companions in misfortune into assisting him in this endeavour. Some had responded to thinly-veiled threats, while others had not needed much convincing; under a veneer of subdued hopelessness, they had been cultivating a cold, deadly intent.

But one thing remained difficult to investigate: the happenings of the outside world.

Other than the old physician and some Alistellian merchants, few came to the grounds of the quarry. It was easy to tell this lack of news had been troubling the master and the rest of the overseers for some time now, but they were always careful to never broach the subject whenever a slave could be in range of hearing.

Using the Vanish spell was the only way to get past this obstacle, although it meant also dragging along the man to whom Heinrich was permanently shackled. The meek Cygnan had protested at first, fearful of what would happen if Heinrich ever got caught, but the others had hinted at a not-so-pleasant encounter with a cave-in if he could not find within himself the will to cooperate. Heinrich, in contrast, had gone all out of his way to cajole him into docility. To his great relief, the combination of the two approaches had worked, and the man now followed Heinrich into every situation, never uttering a sound.

It was no different tonight. Considering how little time they had to accomplish such a task, Heinrich was grateful for the man's newfound will to obey. The three supervisors who stood guard over the slaves as they plowed through their meagre dinners were the sloppiest of the bunch, and as such they were the only ones whose scrutiny they could easily escape. A couple of other slaves motioned over to Heinrich to signify that the overseers's attentions were elsewhere. He then quietly rose to his feet, ignoring the little whimper of worry his unfortunate companion gave as Heinrich's hand snaked behind to forcefully grab his arm.

Outside the shabby dwelling where the master and his son lived, Heinrich could already hear the old man's shouts coming from within. It was an auspicious sign, as the sounds would drown out much of the noise Heinrich and the other slave would make while they skulked around under the cover of the Vanish spell. The two crept their way in, and Heinrich's fingernails dug into the other man's skin to indicate that they needed to stop. Their chains, although wrapped in a few layers of cloth, still gave a little rattle as they came to a stop.

"It freaks me out, the way they look at us sometimes," the son's voice came from the room next to theirs. Heinrich advanced at bit, pulling the other man further in, and quickly appraised his surroundings. "I just think that maybe if—"

"Not this again," Heinrich heard the old man growl. By then, he had noticed a desk covered with papers through the open door by his right, to the opposite side of where the master was berating his son. Was this where the master kept his important documents: letters and maps and all other manners of things that could prove to be useful? "I swear, ever since you've come home from your mother's, you ended up with that annoyingly smug self-righteous streak of hers. There isn't a day that goes by without you questioning my every action."

"Well, um," the son said, sounding even more dimwitted than usual, "it's just that I think treating them that way is kind of wrong, you know?"

"Spare me your misplaced compassion," his father shot back. "You want a job where you can protect your delicate sensibilities? Then try to wiggle your way out to Alistel and see how you fare striking out as an honest man—or whatever _is_ the definition of honest in that gullible head of yours. And then what will you do the day your crops'll start to die out? You'll run home with your tail between your legs, that you will."

"But, Da..."

"You think life's about doing what you want, boy? No, it's about trying not to get every last inch of you broken beyond repair. And _they_ ," the old man spat, and through the crack of the door Heinrich could see him point toward the window; Heinrich quickly realized he meant to designate the slaves sitting outside, "are some of the _tools_ you can use to keep yourself afloat. If they were in my shoes and me in theirs, they'd do and say the same damn thing."

The son shuffled on his feet. "Well, you know best, Da, but if maybe if I tried somethin' other than farming, then—"

"Damn it, don't you ever listen to me? You wouldn't even make it out of the country! They say the Granorgite army's been on the prowl around these parts. " At this, Heinrich's ears perked up. _The Granorgite army? What does he mean?_ "And if we don't get invaded by the Granorgites, then we'll be overrun by rebel scums. I need _all_ the help I can get."

"Alright, alright, Da, I get it, sorry," the giant mumbled, contrite like a little boy.

"That's better," the old man replied. "Now, will you finally get your ass moving so I can finish a bit of work here?"

By then, the sound of his footsteps indicated he was making his way toward where Heinrich was hidden. Swift and quiet like a shadow, Heinrich slipped outside, dragging along the man to whom he was chained to; the latter was still so stricken by fear that he was stiff as a rock. They slid back, unnoticed, in the mass of slaves still eating in the dirt, Heinrich's now fuzzy mind struggling furiously to make sense of what he had just heard.

Just what in the world had happened on the war front, up north?

* * *

There was more than one hundred slaves working in the mine, with little under thirty men to keep guard over them. And although the influx of new blood had decreased over the months, death was still regarded as an ordinary occurrence, one that was displeasing, naturally, but not worth investigating in most cases.

When one first overseer died, the admittedly furious master could do nothing but grudgingly accept it. The slaves were filthy and weak and prone to every sickness known to man: of course it was a possibility that they could pass some foul diseases to their wardens.

When the fourth and fifth overseers succumbed to this new, mysterious illness, however, the old man's gruff indifference turned to rage, albeit a nervous kind. He sent his subordinates on a swift quest for answers. Was it something in the water, the master and his cronies thought at first? Four and five and six and finally seven more men followed. It was somehow amusing, then, to see them scrambling over to put forth new theories. But none of the slaves are affected by this malady, Heinrich had then heard them whisper, and all our water comes from the same source. They were starting to believe that their food supply had become spoiled when three other, previously healthy guardsmen perished suddenly— _too_ suddenly.

At this point, the master's suspicions abruptly veered toward the slaves populating his quarry.

The overseers were never gentle when it came to handling the workers, but tonight it was with shouts and blows that they assembled the slaves outside of their quarters. Heinrich was nursing a nasty gash to the arm when the old master advanced to face them, already shuddering with what could only be badly contained rage. Some of the overseers drew their swords, their eyes darkly foreboding, while the rest cracked their whips and grinned in anticipation.

From this distance, Heinrich almost believed he could see the spittle flying from the master's mouth as he bellowed, commanding the overseers to charge at the slaves amassed in front of them. In response, a growing sense of fury rippled through the latter's midst, and they roared back at their captors, straightening their bloodied and battered bodies into improvised battle stances.

And the corners of Heinrich's mouth slowly curled into a satisfied smirk.

* * *

In the end, they prevailed against the masters.

Their losses had been staggering. Although the few survivors could barely stand on their feet, so exhausted and near starvation they were, they still found within themselves the energy to tear through the belongings of the master and his lackeys with sadistic glee. Some even dragged away a few select cadavers from the mountain of corpses they had piled after the battle. A disturbed Heinrich had made his escape then, unwilling to see what treatment they reserved to the remains of the dead overseers. Instead, he went to rummage through the old man's papers, carefully pocketing most of the maps he could find.

While the others feasted on their spoils (most of them ended up making themselves sick, so hasty they were to devour the overseers's vast food supplies), Heinrich meticulously planned his journey back to Skalla amidst a few rounds of well-deserved rest. Two days afterwards, he was in the middle of preparing his provisions when two of the newly freed slaves came to find him. Their fright made their words near incoherent. Apparently, some of the men who had been serving as scouts had spied a cloud of dust rising on the horizon—a telltale sign that a group, a particularly large one, was making its way over to the quarry.

"We can't see their sigil yet," one of the two men said, worry deepening the creases on his aged face. "Who... who could it be?"

"What should we do?" the younger one interrupted him. Behind the two, a few other survivors were starting to gather, their gaunt faces settling on Heinrich. The latter's spirits plummeted, and he could not help but grind his teeth together. What on earth did they expect _him_ to do?

He had managed to bring most of the men who could still carry a weapon into a coherent formation by the time the first riders reached their location. Their gold flag billowed in the wind, emblazoned by a fiery red symbol. One that Heinrich recognized immediately.

 _Dammit!_ The riders had not reached for their weapons yet, but Heinrich did not care. Without so much of a warning for his fellow men, he turned on his heel and fled, using his now replenished Mana to fade from sight. _Dammit, dammit, dammit!_ It had alleviated Heinrich's heart somehow that the approaching party did not bear the silver dragon on a field of red, the standard of Granorg, but still... had Heinrich escaped one master just to find himself in the clutch of another?

Heinrich stormed into the shack that once belonged to the old man and his son, heading to the chamber he had claimed for himself. He hastily threw in a bag everything he could find, keeping out an ear to listen if anyone was coming his way. Outside, the clopping of the hooves mingled with a few muffled voices and the ever approaching sounds of the army as they marched. So far, there seemed to be no fighting.

Clutching his bag to his heart, Heinrich went to stand by the door, fizzling out of view again. He bit down a swear. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it was giving away his position to anyone who would head in his direction.

Voices and footsteps came to Heinrich's attention, and he sucked in a breath, his left hand coming to rest on the hilt of his dagger.

"I swear I heard someone going that way!" were the first words he could make out.

"He's got some kind of invisibility spell," another man said, and Heinrich's heart hammered into his chest even faster. "He must have sneaked out before you arrived, sir, but he can't have gotten very far from here, really."

"I see," a deep, booming voice—one Heinrich did not recognize—said. "What an interesting ability. Do you know where he might have learned it?"

"No, we don't even know where he's from. Hell, we don't even know his _name_. He's not one for mingling."

By then, the sounds of their footsteps had grown louder, indicating that they had come very close to the shack. Heinrich pushed the door a bit and took a glimpse through the open crack.

The group consisted of a few surviving slaves—easily recognizable from the dirty, tattered tunics that seemed to float around their skeletal forms—and a rather ragtag bunch that included warriors in mismatched pieces of armour and a individual whose outfit was so well-kept he almost seemed out of place. The one in the middle was obviously their leader. He was a mountain of a man—tall and dark, with muscles rippling out of his tunic and leather armour. Heinrich's eyes narrowed. _Could this be...?_

"Is anyone there?" the man called out. He sounded genuinely cordial. "I'm not here to hurt you or any of your people. I'm just curious as how you managed to pull out what you did. _Very_ curious."

Heinrich pondered on the newcomer's words. With a sigh, he finally crossed the door in one step, blinking out of the Vanish spell.

"There he is!" one of the now freed slaves said, pointing to him. Heinrich's sudden appearance caused the group of slaves and desert brigands to nervously whisper among themselves, but Heinrich only had eyes for the giant standing in front of him.

King Garland's formidable gold gaze was one that could easily pine men into place, yet Heinrich instead drew himself to his full height as the stare bore into him. For a fleeting moment he was sure he'd see a hint of a smile gracing the lips of the so-called Desert Tiger.

"They tell me you're the one who's made a mess out of this place," the self-proclaimed king announced. His voice, smooth and powerful, brought memories of Victor and Alistel's General Hugo, although the former could never shake the trace of cowardly doubt from his tone, and the latter's had just reeked of artifice and contempt. It was not so with the man standing in front of Heinrich; he was everything the King of Granorg and the Prophet's Voice could ever hope to be.

Heinrich answered Garland's statement with silence. The king's grin grew larger, and he folded his arms across his chest, but one of his acolytes, the prissy man who stood out like a sore thumb, scowled deeply, clearly irritated on his master's behalf.

"Didn't you hear, _slave?"_ the man said. Everything about him betrayed a past life as a noble of Granorg: his accent, his style of clothes, his very bearing even. "His Majesty wishes to hear an explanation. How did you manage to slaughter your masters?"

"Peace, Hedge," said Garland. His eyes brimmed with amusement.

"My lord, these men are criminals!"

"These men are bloody ingenious, that's what." Garland glanced down at the man named Hedge, his amicability suddenly gone. "Anyone who finds themselves rising above others should always expect to discover one day a knife planted in their back by the people they've pushed under them. The overseers of this place discarded this golden rule, and they paid the price. I'd say every man here has won his freedom, fair and square."

The man called Hedge was clearly stumped. "Your Majesty, this is folly! These men murdered their masters! _Poisoned_ them! You can't seriously think of letting them live!"

"Poison, eh?" Garland said, rubbing the slight beard that covered his angular chin. "How did you manage that?"

Heinrich withstood the man's gaze. "With magic," he finally croaked.

Garland burst into loud guffaws. "A poison spell! You seem like a man of many talents, mister—?"

"Heiss," Heinrich supplied. The name felt disgusting on his tongue.

"Well, Heiss," Garland continued, advancing and raising a large hand for Heinrich to shake, "you are a free man. And I'll gladly let someone with skills of your calibre join me. Food, shelter, women—or men if that's what you prefer. I offer my people nothing but the best. What say you?"

Heinrich's gaze dropped to the king's extended hand.

"There's one thing that I want."

"Oh?" Garland said.

Heinrich looked up, meeting the king's golden gaze again.

"...Skalla." Heinrich's reply came in a low, hate-filled rasp. "I need to get to Skalla."

This time, it was Garland who went silent. "Is that so? I had plans to go there already, but some of my men were against the idea, since—" The king's voice trailed off, and now he seemed lost in thought.

"What do you mean?" one of the slaves next to Heinrich asked. "What's happened in Skalla?"

King Garland's men shared cryptic gazes.

"Did you not hear?" the man called Hedge said, his tone aloof and sneering. "The Granorgites invaded Skalla three months ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, a big thank you to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing!
> 
> And the game didn't give any indication that horses exist in that universe, buuut I kind of find it hard to believe they've build such a civilization without any kind of beasts to ride, so I've gone the easiest and most boring way and gave them horses.


	11. Chapter 10 - Masks, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Strangely enough, Heinrich had never hated the desert.

There was a certain beauty in its large, empty spaces, in the endless dunes and scattered ruins that stood as a silent testament of his ancestors's folly. And now that he had grown to crave genuine solitude the way a dying, thirsty man ached for water, the wastelands had gained a heavenly sheen. In the desert, he was truly alone, with the howls of the wind and the crunching of the sand under his boots serving as his sole company. And in the end, perhaps this lifelessness suited him better – Heinrich, after all, had been born under the shadow of the one who had been given rule over the grandest country on the continent. Perhaps it was better to claim for himself the land of dust and ruins rather than the bountiful green expanses of Granorg.

Heinrich shook his head. The place was making him unusually contemplative. He exhaled slowly to clear his mind and began to creep his way closer to his target, a couple of soldiers who stood in a small valley below. They were too far away for him to decipher their features, but even from here he could see they were clad in the light yellow of the Granorgite infantry.

Thus far, Heinrich had welcomed every scouting mission on which King Garland had sent him. Garland was himself an example of a rare breed – he clearly stood above the rest by the sheer strength of his will – but his band of followers annoyed Heinrich to the highest point. Thus, he relished every moment spent away from their company. Still, other than his magic, his fighting skills had been rendered almost null by the injury he had sustained to his hand (the two mangled fingers still couldn't move... and he had a feeling they would never again) and the months slaving away in the mine. Heinrich could only trust those mangy rebels for protection, but he knew they wouldn't do it only out of the kindness of their hearts. He had to offer something in return.

Scowling, Heinrich put these thoughts away and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting to get a better view. There were only four soldiers below, and they kept to their spot despite the heat. A pair of horses were tied to a small hut nearby, in front of which the remains of a campfire still smoked. The men guarded the pass, it appeared, but their numbers and the mounts hinted that they served as scouts much like Heinrich did. There must have been a Granorgite camp further down the valley, then.

Heinrich rose from his spot on the cliff above and skulked away, unseen and unheard by the soldiers standing guard below. His work here was not done yet.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Heinrich had returned, with the location and numbers of the nearby deployment of Granorgite soldiers safely hidden in the corners of his mind. Heinrich disliked travelling during nighttime. Still, it had once led to an amusing moment where he had spooked a Granorgite patrol who had chanced upon him in the dark. At the time, he had been under the cover of the Vanish spell, conjuring a ball of flame in one hand to keep warm; he supposed he must have come across as some sort of vengeful spirit flaring up in the dead of the night. It would have been almost been enjoyable, then, to take them down with a couple of lightning spells, but the risks had been too great and his time, too short.

The night sky back then had been very dark, with only starlight to guide Heinrich on his path. Tonight, thankfully, the moon offered its full blessings as he journeyed back to the camp. Soon, he spied thousands of lights flickering on the horizon; the encampment King Garland's men had set up two days ago spanned an area that was only scarcely smaller than Skalla itself.

Heinrich stalked through the camp, not stopping until he had come across the largest, most regal tent erected on the premises. At his sight, the two guards stationed at the entrance opened the tent flap to let him in. Garland stopped mid-sentence at the sound of Heinrich's footsteps. The king's councillors, who stood surrounding a table on which a map of the area was sprawled, turned to face him, their expressions immediately growing suspicious. Hedge in particular seemed to have to restrain himself from expressing out loud his disapproval and contempt.

Their scowls did not lessen as Heinrich explained his findings to Garland. The king ran a hand along his beard, his brow slightly furrowing.

"Interesting," Garland said. "I would have expected them to stay garrisoned in Skalla. Why would they risk going further south?"

"It doesn't make any sense," said one of the king's councillors. "They had already lost so much of their territory to Alistel beforehand. Truly, King Victor is mad to fight a new war on a second front while he has his hands already full with the Alistellians."

Another adviser, the oldest of the bunch, tapped his fingers on the table, then pointed at the spot Heinrich had designated on the map. "Still, their position is well chosen. They are protected by the rough terrain to the west and nobody can attack from the north unless they pass through Skalla first. To the south, they force us to bottle up through that valley. And to the east," his fingers traced alongside the map, stopping to rest on a long blue line, "we would have to cross these waters. The current this time of the year would be too strong for us to do anything."

At this, a grin broke through Garland's pensive expression. Before the king could place a word, however, Hedge spoke out.

"This is interesting and all," he said, jutting his chin toward Heinrich, "but should we not dismiss this soldier?"

Garland bounced his eyebrows. "Do we? Is there something wrong here, Hedge?"

"Do you trust this man with such delicate information, my lord?

"I can't say I trust him," the king answered, crossing his arms. "But he needs payment for his services."

"Payment?" said Hedge.

A muscle above one of Heinrich's eyes twitched. God, the man was _obtuse_.

"Some men wish for nothing but a roof above their head and something to fill their stomachs. But others like our friend here expect things of another nature. Information, in his case. Did I read you right, Heiss?"

Heinrich blinked, momentarily taken aback. Finally, he felt one corner of his mouth tugging into a half-grin. "On this count, I'd say."

"Besides, if we had thrown you out, you would have found a way to eavesdrop on us with that useful ability of yours," Garland continued. "So, putting that aside... from the south or the east, where should we strike?"

"My lord, you seemed to have something in mind earlier," the elderly adviser said.

"Yes." The glow of the torchlight glistened in Garland's eyes. "Those Granorgites believe themselves smart, but they don't know the desert like we do."

"The land changes," said another officer.

Silence settled in and slowly, the realization crept up on Heinrich as he gazed upon the map.

"The worst part of summer is coming," Hedge finally said, voicing out loud Heinrich's thought. "And the monsoon has already been so dry thus far."

"When will the river dry out, my lord?" another man added.

"Soon enough," the king said, seating himself in the large chair placed at the head of the table. He steepled his hands together, looking over the map with eyes hidden in the shadows. "And then they'll be very sorry to have left their pretty little green meadows..."

* * *

One month later, and King Garland's raiders had rushed through the ranks of the unsuspecting Granorgites.

Heinrich himself had not participated in the thickest parts of combat, and so he had grown anxious to see how many enemy soldiers had been taken prisoner. So far, none of the very few Granorgites they had captured had been willing to cooperate with Garland's ragtag bunch. As such Heinrich found he still knew very little about their current predicament. He was especially keen on finding out exactly why his brother had launched this ill-fated offensive on the northern cities of Cygnus. A disturbing possibility had been prickling his mind for some time now, and more than anything he wished to lay this worry to rest.

He wasted no time in making his way over to where Garland's men had hauled the captured soldiers. The desert rebels were keeping watch over their prisoners with a laziness that would have shocked any good commander; a number of them lay half-sprawled on the ground, while the ones still standing chattered and laughed among themselves, as if they were not currently fulfilling a rather important duty.

"What the hell?" said one of Garland's men as Heinrich approached. The soldier made a vaguely threatening movement with the knife he had been using to peel up some fruit.

"It's alright, he's with us" another explained. "S'there something you need?"

"Nothing that concerns you," said Heinrich. He flashed them a cold smile and ignored their stares as he walked over to the prisoners, who themselves looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and hostility.

"There's something I need to know," Heinrich continued. He crouched down to face one of the prisoners, forcing his stare into his eyes. The man quickly turned his face away. "Why are you here? What is King Victor trying to accomplish?"

The man still wouldn't hold his gaze, but another prisoner was glaring at Heinrich, his enmity boring holes into his skull.

"They won't say anything," one of Garland's soldiers said. "D'you expect them to blab without working on them a bit?"

Heinrich ignored him. "Tell me." His voice was oddly devoid of any inflexion. "Are you truly so attached to your country? To a king who would gladly throw your lives away for his own designs?" _Just like he would do with mine._

The prisoners kept their silence, only exchanging wary gazes.

"Why do you fight for the man who let hundreds starve in the farthest reaches of his kingdom – why, even so very near the capital city? Do you hold King Victor in such high esteem?"

"It's for our country, " one of the captives said.

"I don't believe that," Heinrich responded. He slid closer to the man. "You're being slaughtered leagues away from home to fulfil some tyrant's nebulous wish. Just how are you helping your fellow countrymen, I wonder?"

Heinrich then rose to his feet, his eyes sweeping across the different faces, studying every twist of the mouth, every gaze darting away from his scrutiny.

"You know what is waiting for you. You know you won't get any mercy here. Yet, you all keep being so stubborn." Heinrich bowed his head, and paused on each face as he continued, "when all you have to do _is—_ "

"It's because of that kid," a voice finally broke through. It belonged to a young man who was shuddering from head to toe. "His kid, one of the two who had been kidnapped." He choked, tears now mingling with the sweat pooling on his cheeks. "They found one of them somewhere near here. But then when we got here, w-we found no trace of 'em, and—"

His words were drowned by the shouts of the other prisoners as they turned on him, cursing and promising bloody murder. Heinrich took a step backward as the Cygnans rushed forward to drag them away from the boy. A great wave of coldness washed over him.

He slipped away, unnoticed, from the prisoners and their captors, stealing his way toward his tent. And when, finally, he lost himself to sleep in the safety of darkness, it was only to have familiar nightmares visit him once more...

* * *

Each step Heinrich took toward Skalla was mechanical, disconnected of any conscious input. His mind was lost, stranded far, far away from his body, and stuck in a prison of its own.

He had been right. He had been right from the very start. The children had been sold into slavery, just as he had. And one of the pair had been discovered: the soldiers they had captured were not sure whether it had been Ernst or Eruca. When word had gotten to Granorg, Victor had sent his troops on a desperate attempt to recover them, setting in motion this senseless conflict.

Inside the sizzling insanity of the mines, it had been easier to steer his thoughts away from this unpleasant truth—because it could not be anything else but a truth, _god_ , Heinrich had been deluding himself up to this point that anything else could have happened to them. How easy, how _comforting_ , it had been to repeat that lie to himself when he had been nothing but a body dedicating every waking thought to the purpose of just _surviving?_

 _(But now—but_ now— _)_

They were only days away from Skalla when they stumbled onto another group, one that was even more disorganized than the ruffians forming the core of Garland's army. The wanderers were evidently civilians who had found themselves forced to take arms. Among them, only a few men and women wore armour and wielded their weapons in a way that suggested they knew how to use them. The latter were welcomed with open arms and hearty claps on the back by the desert rebels. They were apparently a smaller force Garland had sent ahead to meet the few Skallans who had managed to escape the city when the Granorgites had attacked. They had been using hit and run tactics to wear down the invaders's defences, but had obtained so far only mixed results. They were about to run out of supplies when news of the Granorgites' defeat to the south had reached them.

When Garland rode into their midst, triumphant, they flocked to him, cheering, even the Skallan refugees who by all accounts should have believed him nothing but an upstart. Even though his days as a member of the city guard were well behind him, Heinrich could only feel a twinge of annoyance at this collective euphoria. He allowed himself a brief look at the sickening display, scowling at the tearful faces and cries of joy, rolling his eyes at the parents hoisting their children on their shoulders so the king could pat them on the head. But then his gaze settled on a familiar figure standing at the fringe of the crowd, and something in his mood abruptly shifted.

It seemed to him that the sounds of the crowd became very subdued as he observed, with numb stillness, the long, curved horns and blue-black hair of the boy.

Every fibre of Heinrich's being screamed to him to turn on his heel and leave, but his legs would not listen. They instead transported him to the Satyros' side. When finally he had come near the young Beastkind, Amir looked down at Heinrich, his blue eyes expressing nothing but bewilderment.

"What?" said the Satyros boy. "Who are you? Can I help you, sir?"

Heinrich's reply died in his throat. He passed a hand through his wild, dirty hair, and the white whiskers that covered his jaw. Around them, the crowd went on with their celebration, unaware of the fated reunion taking place in their midst.

"Is there something wrong?" the man next to the Beastkind boy said. "Do you want some trouble with Amir? 'Cause if you do, well—"

"I know him," Heinrich croaked, cutting the other's threat short.

"You do?" Amir's voice was almost lost in the noise. "I'm sorry, I can't recall your face, where did we meet?"

"Amir, it's _me_ ," Heinrich said with increasing desperation. "Heiss. M-my children, they worked for Isla."

"Mr. _Heiss?_ No, it can't be!"

The young Satyros' outburst brought further attention to them, and Heinrich's stomach twisted further at the added scrutiny. _Idiot! You should have run!_

"Your eyes," Amir said, his voice hoarse with disbelief, "I remember that red. I had always thought it was a strange colour for a human." He grabbed Heinrich by the shoulders, and the latter could not help but stiffen at the contact. "It _is_ you. By God, what happened?"

Heinrich's throat was dry as sand. He remembered: Amir had been out of the city back then, on the road again to find new supplies for Isla's clinic. He hadn't been there _when_ —

"I... the city guard arrested me. They thought I sold information to the desert rebels. T-They sold me as a slave. _They sold me_." As he said these words out loud, the full atrocity of what they had done to him finally sunk in. He clutched at his chest. _They sold me—like chattel._ Suddenly, every breath seemed painfully impossible to extract.

"Oh god," Amir whispered. "Mrs. Cecile had told me she had seen some guards dragging you and the children and Isla away from your home. She said there was blood everywhere, and that you were all out cold." Amir's breathing grew laboured, and it was with a sob that he continued. "What happened to Isla? Since then I haven't heard from her—I've been told _nothing_. P-Please tell me she's alright!"

Heinrich met Amir's tear-filled blue gaze. And suddenly, a different pair of eyes looked back at him—

_(She was choking on her blood in front of him again, her pale green gaze pleading silently, and in that moment, the moment she had been dying, she had been nothing but a child desperate for help, a child being murdered miles away from her home and the people who loved her—)_

And a veil of black abruptly fell over Heinrich's mind. "I don't know," he murmured, the lie so softly said. "I don't know what they did to her."

The blue eyes widened. "Do you think she might be alive?"

"Perhaps." Heinrich's voice rung hollow, but Amir would obviously cling to any shred of hope, and he swallowed the lie whole. "Perhaps she is."

 _She will be, once I go back and end this farce once and for all_ , Heinrich completed in his thoughts _._

_And then all of this will have never happened._

* * *

Amir never left Heinrich's side after this encounter.

It took Heinrich quite a while to realize the Satyros boy was trying to keep an eye out for him. Why Amir was so worried, Heinrich could not tell. Still, once they were in Skalla and Heinrich would hopefully recover the White Chronicle (he prayed it was still under that broken plank beneath the bed, god, he _did)_ , then everything in this timeline would cease to be. And Amir would forget that Heinrich even existed.

Amir's constant shadowing turned into a true hassle when came the day they'd lay siege to Skalla. Heinrich, of course, had been ordered by the king to infiltrate the city beforehand.

"Let me come with you," pleaded Amir. "I can help. With my magic, I can—"

"Your magic is conspicuous and so are you," replied Heinrich. "I won't risk the mission just so you can ditch us to search for your lady love."

Amir tensed. "No, I won't be in the way, really, I'll—"

"I'll try to look for what you seek." _Or not._ "I'll tell you what I'll learn after the battle." _Not that I will search in the first place._ Once Heinrich would be in the city, he would immediately seek his former home, and the White Chronicle. Amir was not aware of these plans, of course, and Heinrich's words only brought a fleeting smile to his face.

"Please, Mr. Heiss," he said. "Take care of yourself. These days, I'm afraid you will—" Amir cut himself short with a sigh, and he shook his head. "Just be careful out there."

Heinrich gave him an odd look. "Of course I will." _Such a strange boy._ "You needn't worry about me."

The expression on Amir's face as he walked away indicated the Satyros clearly felt otherwise.

* * *

Heinrich was glad that his old lodgings were located close to the eastern gate, where he knew that Garland would launch his attack.

"It was smashed by a Hell Spider some years ago," Heinrich had explained when Garland had brought him to his war council for intel. "They repaired it, but it's no secret that it was a botched work. The structure is still unstable. The Granorgites could have replaced the wooden parts, but they would not know about the weaknesses in the stone foundations. A good battering ram and a few explosive fire spells will do the trick."

The few Skallan citizens who had joined Garland's ranks corroborated his story. It had helped convince Garland to enter the city through the eastern gate rather that the one to the south of the city, which was closer to their position, in reality. But the southern gate wouldn't have fulfilled Heinrich's needs. Between Garland's crusade for Cygnan freedom and getting his hands back on the White Chronicle, it was not difficult to see which one was more important in the grander scheme of things.

They sneaked inside Skalla the night before the planned attack. Heinrich had been tasked with the despicable duty of ferrying a few saboteurs into the city, using his trusty Vanish spell. The men and women then scattered to their assigned positions, some going south to help the smaller part of Garland's forces who would attack the southernmost gate in the early morning, while others remained in the eastern portion of the fortifications, awaiting further instructions.

Heinrich himself was to direct his efforts on the easternmost gatehouses, along with two of Garland's staunchest supporters, a brother and a sister who were as quiet as they were driven.

Under the cover of darkness, they found where the Granorgite soldiers kept their supplies – spare swords and shields and long steel lances, but most importantly bows and crossbows and arrows. One quick spell later, and it was all ablaze, with Heinrich safely hidden in the shadows by the time the fire would be discovered. At the same time, the other infiltrators would do the same and more – there were throats to be slit, bribes to be made, and of course, gates to be opened.

By the time the morning came, the soldiers guarding the fortifications were running amok trying to stop the fires from spreading; all the while, Garland's agents had added to the mayhem, adding their own blend of discord by striking the increasingly fearful Granorgites before retreating back to obscurity. But when on the horizon the silhouette of an army loomed against the rising sun, a whole new level of panic rippled through the Granorgite ranks.

It all devolved to pure chaos afterwards.

Heinrich had spent the latter parts of the night hidden under the Vanish spell. But when he glimpsed the smoke of dust rising in the distance and heard the drumming of the hundreds of feet stamping on the empty wastes outside Skalla, he leaped out of invisibility, and began to slash his way through the soldiers massing on the fortifications.

The first man Heinrich cut down bore a crossbow. The fear flickered and died in the younth's eyes so fast he could not utter a sound. His body had not yet fallen to the ground when Heinrich launched himself at another guard, his dagger plunging through the leather, then the soft flesh. A third soldier roared, the furious sound distorted by grief, and he swung his own weapon, only to find that his target had blinked out of sight. The next time he moved his lips to speak, only blood poured out of his open mouth.

 _(It was easy, so, so, so very_ easy _. Heinrich could not believe he had once thought himself weak. He had never been one of Fate's favoured, but Death obviously held him in some regard; whenever he found himself amidst the chaos of battle, it surely extended its long cold claws over him in protection while he did its bidding.)_

He was closer to one of the two gatehouses now. Over the swishes of the arrows flying into the air, he could hear a man scream, "Ladders! Get rid of the ladders!" Heinrich's eyes swept across the area stretching out of the city. Garland's warriors had reached the wall, but it was their ladders and the large battering ram in their midst that struck the Granorgites with panic. They did not have enough archers to halt their progress.

Heinrich allowed himself a swift smirk at the sight, then raised his dagger to deflect a coming attack. The Mana flared through his right arm, and a swirl of fire erupted from his empty hand. The Granorgite soldier who had assaulted him emitted a scream that sent chills crawling through Heinrich's skin. Behind him the other soldiers shouted their comrade's name, the fear burning through their midst as surely as the fire melted down the man's skin.

And Heinrich raised his right hand, orange light blazing out of his open palm once more.

* * *

The streets of Skalla were deserted, save for a few Granorgite soldiers roaming about, clearly struck numb with a lack of purpose. There were also the occasional Skallan citizens bursting out of their homes to see the commotion; some brought makeshift weapons and rushed to the intruders, bludgeoning the terror-stricken Granorgites before they could even lift a finger to defend themselves.

Heinrich only ran.

The sounds of war had grown louder when he finally reached the old building where he had once lived with Ernst and Eruca. Here, he was finally alone, the only signs of human life being the distant screams and the clatters of sword against sword. Debris of all kind littered the empty street: household items left behind by the deserting Granorgites, discarded bits of food, even a few pieces of bloodied clothing, the telltale signs that it was violence that forced these people out of their homes.

Heinrich's earlier exultation had disappeared, replaced by a terrifying sense of emptiness. He climbed up the stairs to his old lodgings; the two-roomed apartment he and the children shared appeared untouched by the chaos. The biggest of the two beds had not even been moved.

He pushed it, soon finding the plank under which he had laid down the White Chronicle. His breath caught in his throat as he tore the piece of wood off the floor.

It was still there, covered by a thin layer of dust, but otherwise gloriously intact. The breath Heinrich had been holding exited his mouth in a half-sob. He grabbed the White Chronicle with trembling hands.

 _(He would get out of here, and then none of this will have ever happened. None, none none_ — _)_

The words gave him comfort as he forced the book open with a single, violent move. He braced himself for the trip back to Historia—but then, something fell out of the open pages.

Heinrich's world came to a grinding stop. He reached for the item that had fallen out of the Chronicle.

It was Carolus' _Species Plantarum_.

None of this will have ever happened. That was what he was telling himself, that these events would never taint the pages of History. But instead they would forever be etched in his memory in violent, bloody letters the way his body was now marked by the lash and the blade. As were, by all probabilities, the skins of the sweet, innocent children who had offered him this gift, a thousand years ago.

Heinrich's hands crushed the pages of the old book.

Suddenly, there was still one last task he had to finish before this worldline was to be purged out of existence.

* * *

The battle was already over by the time Heinrich made his way back.

Skalla was jubilant, her citizens filling the streets to meet their new heroes. Perfect strangers jumped into each other's arms from sheer joy, children ran behind the desert rebels singing songs, and the alcohol flowed as the Skallans uncorked their best bottles to share them with Garland's raiders.

They did not see the husk of a man slithering through the crowd in his dirty, tattered cloak. He had no thought to devote to them as well.

Only when he reached the eastern parts of the fortifications did someone take note of him.

"Oh, thank the heavens!" Amir's voice sounded above the noise of the crowd. "Mr. Heiss! You're alive!"

The Satyros boy ran to him, lifting a hand to grab his shoulder in a comforting manner. Heinrich rose hollow eyes to him.

"Are you hurt? We should have a healer look at you. The others said they lost sight of you during the battle. "

"I'm fine," Heinrich said gruffly. His eyes surveyed his surroundings – here, a couple of desert rebels were resting near the wall and looking at him with suspicious gazes, there, the occasional drunks were passing through, singing and dancing and spilling their drinks everywhere. Not far away a few wounded were being treated by healers. Their eyes were as hauntingly empty as his.

"Are you sure? Mr. Heiss, you seem... _unwell_..."

"I said I was fine," Heinrich snapped. "There's something I need to find."

"Oh," Amir said, immediately understanding. "Well," he continued, before turning to look at the area where the injured were being taken care of—

No, Heinrich realized, these men were not part of Garland's forces. They were too thin, too sickly, to have fought only hours prior. They looked like men who had not seen the sunlight for a long, long time.

"These people, who are they? " Heinrich said, his heartbeat quickening. Some of these faces were familiar...

"Some of the Granorgites's prisoners, I believe," Amir explained. That inexplicable hint of worry began to show in his eyes again. "Mainly members of the city guard. Do you know some of them?"

 _"Yes,"_ Heinrich whispered. Over there – and Heinrich's heart raced even faster – a balding, middle-aged man was talking to one of the desert rebels, his tired face breaking into a occasional smile. He was slimmer, and more frail-looking, but Heinrich had pictured himself beating the man to a pulp too often over the last year to forget his features.

 _Gyorg_.

A hiss escaped Heinrich's mouth, and suddenly his legs were moving of their own accord...

"—it's good to see you, brother," said the rebel to whom Gyorg was speaking. The man almost seemed on the verge of tears. "Damn, when I first heard what had happened here, you have no idea how many times I asked Lord Garland to mount a rescue."

"It's alright, it's alright," Gyorg said. His voice was hoarser than Heinrich remembered. "I knew the king wouldn't let us rot here. Not after everything we've done for—" His voice trailed off as he finally noticed Heinrich standing a mere length away. "What?"

"Something's wrong here?" growled Gyorg's brother.

"You're one of Lord Garland's supporters," Heinrich said, bluntly.

"What's it to you?" Gyorg's brother spat.

"Who are you?" Gyorg himself said weakly. "Just... what's going on?"

By then, someone had grabbed Heinrich's arm from behind.

"What has gotten into you?" Amir said, distressed. "You're not acting like yourself." He turned to Gyorg and his brother. "Please, I beg you to forgive him. He's had it harsh these last few months..."

Heinrich's gaze never swayed from Gyorg's own eyes. The man shuddered under the stare.

"Please, let's go," Amir implored. "Let's not trouble them further."

Heinrich let the Satyros boy drag him away without uttering another word.

* * *

The soft noises Gyorg and his wife made as they slept were almost soothing.

The woman was curled into her husband's arms; with the rays of the morning sun peeking out of the window, he could see how red and blotchy her face still was, likely from the tears of joy she had shed upon reuniting with the father of her child.

The child who was currently struggling in Heinrich's grasp, moaning as her feet dragged along the floor.

"Papa, Mama," Gyorg's daughter managed to whimper.

The noise brought Gyorg out of sleep. The man rubbed his eyes as the woman in his bed stirred as well, and Gyorg groggily brought his gaze to where his daughter's voice had come from. And then his face drained of all blood.

"Melia!" Gyorg cried out. His wife shrieked. They scrambled out of bed, but their movements came to an abrupt stop when Heinrich pulled on the little girl's thick, dark locks.

"Papa, Mama," the girl pleaded in a whisper. She emitted another little whine when Heinrich yanked her hair to draw her further away from her parents.

"Oh, please, _please_ —" her mother wailed.

"W–who are you? P-Please, I'll do anything," Gyorg begged.

The man's desperation lit a flicker of morbid delight in Heinrich's guts.

"You," he said, motioning to Gyorg's wife, "take the girl and get out of here. I have to speak with your husband."

The woman hurried to grab her sobbing daughter, giving her husband one last terrified glance before scurrying out of the room. Gyorg's eyes darted to the door where his wife and daughter had escaped.

"What do you want? Who _are_ you?" For all his bravado, Gyorg still noticeably stumbled upon some words.

"Hold your tongue," Heinrich snapped in response, "I'll ask the questions here."

He had barely finished the last syllable when Gyorg bolted to the left, where he'd put his sword for the night. Without even a blink, Heinrich flickered out of sight and rushed headfirst, catching Gyorg. The man yelped in shock as Heinrich pushed him forward, and Gyorg ended up halfway through the open window, with Heinrich's knife at his throat.

"Oh god, oh god, what the _hell?"_

"Shush," Heinrich answered with a thin smile. The image of Gyorg's sweat-covered head dangling from the window sparked a distant memory. "Why, this reminds me of something. _You're_ the one who wouldn't help me when that rebel was about to throw me out that window, weren't you? Was that because you didn't want to blow your cover?"

"T-The hell—"

"You remember me, do you? _Do you?"_ he pressed the knife further into Gyorg's throat, breaking the skin. "You sold me. You sold me to save your own _skin_."

"I'm not _—no,_ just, let me go, please!"

"You don't remember me?" Gyorg's words were like a cold wave washing over Heinrich. _"You don't remember me?!"_

Gyorg panted and whimped as his assailant's right hand tightened on his arm, the three fingers that had not been rendered useless digging into the skin.

"You don't—you _don't_ — _!"_ Heinrich said in a furious whisper. His blood chilled in his veins, and he drew a breath in a hiss as Gyorg struggled uselessly under him. Gyorg opened his mouth to say something, but the words never had the time to go past his lips.

The sound of Gyorg's body as it crashed on the ground two floors below was soon followed by the screech of a woman. When Heinrich stepped out of the building that housed Gyorg's family, the street had begun to fill with people coming out of their own homes. They looked upon the unfolding events with growing horror. Some of them even moved as if they wished to help the unfortunate man laying prostrate in the dirt. Still, those few froze on their spots when they caught sight of Heinrich as he stalked over Gyorg's helpless form.

Gyorg's wife and daughter were huddled around him, their soft cries drowning out the man's moans of pain. The woman sharply raised her face to look at Heinrich, and she gathered her daughter in her arms again.

"Please, please, have mercy!" she said as she slowly backed away. "Stop this, please, don't hurt him!" In her arms, the girl was struggling against her mother's tightening hold, calling out for her father.

"Move," Heinrich commanded with a cold voice, and the woman obeyed.

Gyorg tried to crawl away, but Heinrich pinned down the man with one heel, crushing one of Gyorg's legs underneath. The limb was bent at an odd, unnatural angle.

"Stop, oh god, oh god, what the _hell_ —"

Heinrich twisted his heel, and pushed and pushed until Gyorg was screaming. "You really don't remember me? Who am I? What is my _name_? _"_

"It hurts, god, it _hurts_ , make it stop, _make it stop_ —"

This time, Heinrich delivered a swift kick to Gyorg's side; the man curled on the ground, loudly crying out.

"I don't know... please!" Gyorg's voice could barely be heard over his wife's and daughter's screams.

Heinrich flared his teeth, and he was about to strike him again when a sudden pain erupted on his brow. He whirled on his feet; Gyorg's daughter had seized another rock and was about to throw it at him, but her mother grabbed her, shielding her daughter with her body.

"No, no, no" the woman pleaded, "she didn't mean to! _Please_ , don't hurt us!"

Heinrich hadn't realized that he had taken a few steps toward the woman and the girl. Slowly, he brought his attention back to Gyorg. The diversion had allowed the man to get to his feet.

Even with one broken leg, Gyorg still managed to stagger away from Heinrich. A few bystanders were gingerly making their way to him, their wary eyes locked on Heinrich. The latter only conjured a ball of fire in one hand; with gasps of terror, the stragglers stopped in their tracks, and out came a chorus of incoherent pleas and begs. Heinrich ignored them.

"I swear, whatever I did to you, I didn't mean to do it!" Gyorg prattled on.

"What about the others? Do you remember _them?"_ Heinrich was tired of this pathetic display. "The girl and the two children? The girl you had murdered, the children you _sold?_ The youngest was the same age as your daughter _._ " The fire crackled in his open palm. "They were innocent. You had to frame me to stop the Sergeant from finding out about your dealings with the rebels, but they had nothing to do with it. _They were innocent_. _"_

"W–who—w–what—?"

 _"Do you remember their names?!"_ Heinrich exploded. "Ernst, Eruca—that's who they were. The most selfless souls you could ever meet. They would have been even willing to help a worm like _you._ " A grin was growing on his lips, distorting Heinrich's tearful face into a leer that would have frightened Ernst had he been there. "But I'm not like _them_. That's not _me_."

"Heiss," finally came Gyorg's reply. "You're... _Heiss_..."

Heinrich's smile froze. "No," he said in barely a whisper, "that's not me. That's not my name." Bile rose within his mouth and he shuddered; his smile flittered away. "That's not me." The cogs had stopped turning in his mind. That man was wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. _"That's not my name."_

His name. Heinrich had only wanted to hear someone utter his name.

There was a sudden explosion, then a scream. Up front, a man was on fire. But Heinrich's mind could only focus on—

_(That's not me, that's not me, that's not me, that's not me, THAT'S NOT ME—)_

Blood scattered in the air. A knife plunged in and out of a man's melted, charred flesh. And up came the wail of a child screaming for her father—

 _(—_ _NOT ME, NOT ME, NOT ME_.)

* * *

"You have returned, Heinrich."

The voice and the words seemed to belong to another lifetime. The man dropped to his knees, his palms resting open on the cold grey stone under him. Under him, the White Chronicle lay open, with the remaining pages of _Species Plantarum_ scattered on the yellowed parchment.

_(My name, that's my name. My name, my name, my name—)_

He thought he would relish the sound of that name. He didn't.

"Why?" he managed to say in a choked rasp, "why wouldn't this timeline work? What did I do wrong? Why? _Why, why, WHY?"_

"You had not gathered the necessary conditions for the Ritual to work," Teo responded.

"No matter the time you would have spent trying to fix your mistakes, it would have not changed anything, Heinrich," Lippti continued. "This timeline was—"

_(Dead. Dead, dead, dead from the start.)_

His left hand tightened into a fist against the floor, and pain flared through the fingers on his mangled right hand. A few droplets fell on the pages of the Chronicle, darkening the old paper in some spots. He raised the shaking hand to his face, the fingers gingerly touching the damp trails on his cheeks. He hadn't even noticed he had begun to cry. A bit of red scattered on the yellow. Blood from his head wound, the one Gyorg's daughter had inflicted on him.

"Would you have killed the girl?" came Teo's voice.

His blurry gaze snapped to where the boy sat. "No!" he shouted, his body shuddering in anger now. "Do you believe that I can—that I _would_ — _!"_ He choked and grasped at his chest, sobbing in earnest now.

_(Why, why, why, WHY—)_

"Oh, Heinrich," Lippti said softly. "Heinrich, don't..."

There wasn't anything else she could have said. The man let himself fall to the floor.

"Heinrich, sleep. You can still try. You'll succeed in your endeavour, I'm certain of it. But now..." Her voice was soothing – when was the last time someone had spoken to him like that? "Just sleep. We'll watch over you."

His body curled on the ground. The shivers would not stop. But then, out of the tiny opening of his weary eyelids, he saw it. A gentle green light was draping itself around him. That warmth was familiar—but where had he felt it before?

 _What is that light?_ the man mused. It filled him with nostalgia.

His thoughts were slowing down. _I missed you_ , were the words that came to his mind. But then sleep, that soft darkness, claimed him before he could manage to find a meaning to that strange statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, yeah the first part's finished, except for the epilogue. Yaaay!
> 
> Anyway, a big merci! to all of you guys reading this. You really warm the cold cockles of my heart! And as always, thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for being a great beta!


	12. Epilogue I - Believe in Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia bellongs to Atlus.

For the tenth night in a row, Ernst could not fall asleep.

It was hard to tell how long it had been since his governess had tucked him into bed with a goodnight kiss. When she had been there, cooing over him, he had smiled and played the part of the happy prince. But as soon as she had left, that mask had fallen, and the worry that had been his constant companion for the last three months had once more insidiously crept up in his train of thoughts.

It was getting more difficult to hide the issue. Two days ago, Ernst had been so cross from the lack of sleep that he had snapped at his history tutor; _of course_ , she had then felt the need to share this little incident with his father, who'd then given him a tongue-lashing so severe he was sure half the castle had heard.

If only his room hadn't been so _vast_. The emptiness had never felt frightening before, but now even the very space in his bed seemed suffocating. Ernst shuddered. He loathed to admit it, but there was a part of him that longed for the small comforts he was given as a little boy: a small candle lit by his bedside, a stuffed animal to hug, or even better, a warm hand stroking his hair. When he had been just a baby, he had often slipped out of bed to go find his mother, or his governess, or even sometimes Uncle (the latter mostly just brought him back to his bed with a sigh). Now, it was him who found himself having to reassure someone; whenever some nightmare spooked Eruca, she would be the one to sneak into his room and ask if she could sleep with him. She had been too young to do the same with their mother, and when he'd asked her why she didn't go see their uncle instead, she'd confided that he frightened her sometimes.

_Eruca..._

Suddenly, it seemed as if something had sucked the air out of his room. Ernst buried himself beneath the blankets, his breaths becoming increasingly labourious. Tears prickled his eyes. He would not think of that day three months ago, _no_ , he would not remember it. He wanted to run to Eruca's room to check on her, to make sure she was still there, safely asleep in her bed. He needed to see with his own eyes that she was still alive and breathing and not dead in some nameless street somewhere near the outer walls of the city.

But Ernst couldn't do that to his baby sister. Already, her brush with death had left her a husk of her usual self. Her little shoulders already carried so much, he would not force on her the weight of his own fears and worries. He was the older brother. He would endure and put on a silly grin and mess up her hair. He would tell her that everything was all right.

But everything _wasn't_ all right, a noisy little voice would say, infiltrating Ernst's mind whenever he found himself lying alone in the darkness. Ernst remembered. They'd kept him apart from his mother as she wasted away, but he still could recall with perfect clarity the morning where Lady Beth had sat him on her lap and said, her voice shaky with grief, that their beloved queen had passed away during the night.

And so Ernst _knew_. He knew how easy it was for a life to just _stop_. One morning, it would be just one morning like any other, and you would wake up to find that a thief in the night had stolen your mother away from you, sundering you from her laughs and kisses and warm hands forever. One moment, it would take just one moment where you'd look the other way to laugh at something your uncle had said, and a stranger would thrust a knife in-between the ribs of your one and only sister.

Thankfully, this had not happened. Uncle had saved Eruca from that cruel man. But it didn't mean tomorrow he wouldn't find Eruca's bed empty, the sheets stained red with her blood, it didn't mean he wouldn't go to Uncle's chambers to discover him laying on the floor, stiff and cold, with eyes that stared in the empty space without seeing...

Ernst stifled a sob and gnawed his teeth together. Here he was, a boy of ten—and the crown prince of Granorg to boot!—crying like a little baby. Stupid! he was so stupid, and weak, too!

He rolled over to the other side of the bed, cursing the tears that now fell freely from his eyes. He took his pillow in his hands and buried his face into the fabric. For a moment, Ernst remained still, his sobs muffled by the pillow, until his ears caught the sound of his door creaking open. Ernst's soft whimpers abruptly came to an end.

 _"What?_ W-who's there? _"_ the boy whispered.

His heart hammered against his chest. Ernst gulped down a mouthful of air, then asked again. "Is someone there? Hello?"

The room was dark, with only a patch on the floor illuminated by a ray of moonlight. Then, a shadow surged forward.

Ernst fell back, emitting a low cry in surprise. He opened his mouth to scream, but the figure lifted his hands in a gesture that was clearly meant to be soothing.

"Ernst, _Ernst_ ," a familiar voice escaped from the hood that covered the stranger's face, "it's me."

Ernst blinked back tears. "U–Uncle Heinrich? W–why are you here?"

Uncle conjured a ball of fire in one hand. The light was just enough to let Ernst see the figure of a cloaked man standing by the end of his bed.

"Ernst, I don't have much time," Uncle said. His voice was hoarse. "You have to promise me something."

"P-Promise you what?" What had gotten into Uncle Heinrich, bursting in Ernst's room in the middle of the night like that? "What do you mean? Why don't you have much time?"

Uncle chuckled. "It doesn't matter. What's important is that you promise that you'll keep you and your sister safe while I'm..." Uncle seemed to hesitate. Something in his tone made Ernst wary.

"While you're what? What is this all about? Couldn't you just have waited til tomorrow morning to tell me?"

The lengthy silence that followed only made Ernst's heart pound faster in his chest.

"Tomorrow morning, it would have been too late. Your father, _ahh_ ," Uncle seemed to have trouble finding what word to use, "well, tomorrow let's say your father won't be very happy with me."

Ernst frowned.

 _"What?_ What did you do?"

"Now, I don't have time to explain. Just promise me."

"I promise," Ernst finally said. He dragged himself to the end of the bed to get a better view of his uncle's face, but the man moved away as though he was bitten by a poisonous snake. "What is _wrong_ with you? You're acting strange."

Uncle shook his head. "I'm fine. I-I'm just..."

Was it a trick of Ernst's tired eyes or was Uncle _trembling?_ The tiny ball of fire in his hand did seem to shudder at least, as if it was caught in the wind.

"You said you want me to keep watch over Eruca while you're—" and suddenly, a horrifying possibility dawned on Ernst, "wait, did you mean... while you're away?"

"...yes." Uncle choked on that single word.

Ernst's hands tightened on the rails of his bed. "Will you be away for long?" Why did he sound so desperate? Uncle had gone away hundreds of times before. Why did it all seem so _wrong_ now?

"I don't know, Ernst. You don't have to worry, I'll keep an eye out for you even if I'm far away."

 _"_ Tell me! When will you be back?"

"I don't know, _Stocke_ , I don't know!" Uncle suddenly snapped.

Ernst reeled away; the flame in Uncle's hand had flared when he had shouted.

"Did you," the boy began, slightly in a daze, "did you call me Stocke? _"_

The flame went out of Uncle's hand.

"...Uncle?"

All of a sudden, Uncle sprung forward, grabbing Ernst's shoulders with both hands. The man started to stutter, and now the words were coming out of his mouth too quickly for Ernst to decipher.

"I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ ," was all Ernst managed to understand, although it made no sense. What would Uncle be sorry about?

"Uncle, calm down," Ernst said, his fear rapidly escalating. "Stop, stop, you're _hurting_ me."

Uncle didn't seem to hear Ernst's plea, and he only tightened his hold on the boy's shoulders. His mutters were brought to a stop, however, when a few shouts came from outside Ernst's room. Uncle Heinrich noticeably tensed as Ernst turned his face toward the door.

Still, the man seemed to have regained a bit of his usual composure. "Damn. I would have wanted some time to say goodbye to your sister too."

"They're looking for someone," Ernst said with mounting dread. "Uncle, what did you do?"

He tried to meet his uncle's eyes, but it was difficult to find the man's gaze in the darkness.

"I, _ahh_ , might have had a terrible row with your father." There was a pause, then: "Also, I cast a sleep spell on him."

"You _what?!"_

Another shout from beyond the door followed Ernst's outburst, and Ernst felt his blood freeze in his veins; had he directed the guards to his uncle's position just now?

"Damn them all to hell," said Uncle. He grabbed Ernst's shoulders again, but this time more gently. "My boy, remember what you promised me. Don't let your father trample over you. Deep down, the man is nothing but a coward. Don't let him drag you down. If you ever need help... well, I've devised many, _many_ ways to take care of him if the need arises."

There was something in Uncle's voice that sent a chill down Ernst's spine. "Wait, what do you mean, 'take care'—?"

The footsteps seemed to be getting closer. Uncle gave Ernst's shoulders one last, light squeeze.

"This is for your own good, my boy," the man said as he took a step backward. Ernst just looked at him, struck speechless by a prickling sense of dread. "I'm doing all of this for you."

And Uncle backed away until he was fully swallowed by the obscurity. When Ernst rushed out of bed to follow after him, one mere moment later, it was only to find an empty room and the soft caress of the early autumnal breeze fleeing from the balcony door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for being a great beta!


	13. Chapter 11 - A Lonely Observer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

* * *

_Apocrypha_ \- _A_ Radiant Historia _fanfic_

_Part II - Heiss_

* * *

 

There was a long stretch of land, in the heart of the continent, that had switched hands so often no one was quite sure which country could claim it as its own. When the first Alistellians had passed through its treacherous crevasses and canyons some seven decades ago, a lucky landslide had stopped their Granorgite pursuers in their tracks. The tale had been embellished over the years, the most devout parts of Noah's followers even insisting that the boulders had fallen because the heavens had willed it so. The silly story had given the area the name by which it was known nowadays.

The people called it Judgement Cliff.

Daoud had been born in a small village smack in the middle of the no man's lands. Long ago, he understood Granorgite territory had extended as far as his hometown, but now even the village elders had no idea to whom they owed allegiance. Apparently, out west, the king of Granorg had issued a decree telling that Judgement Cliff belonged to Granorg, his reasoning based on the royal family's ancestral links to the Old Empire. The Alistellians' only response was to retort that they had won a right over it through rule of conquest (Daoud had laughed out loud at this. Through what battle, he'd wondered?). And to the south, the greedy gazes of the Cygnan desert lords were fixed towards the unclaimed lands; they had never made their move, but the threat still hung over every man, woman and child who called the area their home, poised above their heads like a sword held up by a string.

Still, Daoud was just a mercenary, and now that he lived his life throwing his lot to the highest bidder, he had stopped thinking about it so much. His commanding officer might have known the truth of these matters. The Chief was a fountain of knowledge when it came to these kinds of things. It was hard to tell where he came from, exactly. The man spoke well, but with an oddly colourless accent, and his clothes, although clearly cut from fine materials, had obviously seen better days. Was he a disgraced member of some minor Granorgite noble family? Or did he belong to Alistel's new rising bourgeois class? No matter the answer, it was clear that he once had the privilege of being forced to sit on his ass to be drilled about idiotic matters like history and geography. The image had made Daoud and the others laugh when they had broached the topic over a pint of ale. The poor man might have been the only one in their group to have been subjected to such a torment. Daoud almost wanted to pity him. Almost.

They all entertained their own ideas about the man. Salvia, their team's medic and one of Daoud's good friends, was in a middle of a particularly zany tale (she seemed to believe the Chief really was just a disgruntled botanist whose life had taken a turn for the worse when a ploy for vengeance had gone astray) when the man himself called for attention. The clamour of their mess hall died down to mutters as the Chief went over the details of their new operation. Their mercenary band had apparently been ordered to leave for Judgement Cliff in a reconnaissance mission, ahead of the Alistellian forces. The announcement left Daoud in a silent and contemplative mood, and he barely listened to the man as he went on. The Chief's briefing was shorter than usual, and when he retreated to his quarters, the three with whom Daoud was usually partnered with turned to him.

 _"_ Ugh, _"_ Salvia said. "Is the place really as dreadful as they say, Daoud?"

"At this time of the year, the sun will fry us on the spot," Daoud replied with a wry smile.

Salvia winced. "What were the Alistellian brass _thinking?_ Could they have waited a bit for the start of their big invasion?" She then slumped on the table with a groan.

"They won't invade," said Salvia's twin brother, Sage. He was nearly identical to her, with the same slim build and pale skin, but his mousy brown hair was cut short instead of being held into a thick ponytail like hers. "You know how it's been the last few years. The Granorgites advance a bit, Alistel kicks them out. Rinse and repeat, and then it's the Alistellians' turn to start the dance. Only this time, it's us that they send on the front lines instead of their own people."

"Remind me why we're in this line of work again?" said Salvia. "I don't remember dreaming of being Alistellian cannon fodder back when I was a kid."

The fourth member of their little group, Mira, folded her arms across her chest. "It's not too late to back out, girl." The bronzed-skinned woman was their best fighter, with a muscled frame that dwarfed most of the men in their mercenary band. Her broadsword was as tall as the twins, with a blade as large as a man's hand.

Salvia burst into laughter. "It was a rhetorical question, Mir. We're all here for the same reason, really. Why would I want to miss the fun, when I'm paid to do this kind of thing?"

A chuckle followed Salvia's statement. Daoud turned toward the source of the sound, and found that a middle-aged man with rather nondescript features was now standing by their table, his mouth upturned into a slight grin. Salvia nearly choked on her drink at the sight of him.

"Chief!" Daoud exclaimed. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Heh," the older man said, passing a hand through well-groomed whiskers, "it doesn't matter. Did I startle you?"

"I didn't mean to sound as if I'm complaining about the mission, sir," Salvia said, "really, it was just for a laugh."

"I wouldn't have held it against you if you had some second thoughts about this," the Chief replied. "God knows none of us here are doing this out of the goodness of our hearts." His smile froze into place. "I know I am not."

"Is there something the matter, sir?" said Sage. He was always the one to bring the conversation back to the topic really at hand.

The Chief appeared a bit pensive. "This mission will be a little different from usual. I'll need to assemble a smaller strike force to go in first."

"So I guess you being here means that we're your best elements?" said Salvia. A muscle at the corner of Sage's mouth twitched, while Daoud hid a smirk.

"Perhaps," the Chief said enigmatically. "I'll be going personally, and as such I do need a level of competency not found in every part of this group." He punctuated the end of his sentence with a shrug.

"Isn't that dangerous for you to be going, sir?" Mira asked. "If you were killed…"

There was a low chuckle from the man again. "I won't be killed. I have reasons to believe the universe must hate me, but I don't think it wants me dead."

Daoud frowned at this strange declaration. The Chief was a bit odd, but also much more efficient as a leader than some of the people Daoud once had the bad luck of serving under. And there was something, just a little something, about the man that left Daoud wary. The Chief seemed unassuming, even meek sometimes, and while there must had been certainly a bit of truth to that persona, Daoud suspected his real nature might be otherwise. He wouldn't have made it very far as a mercenary if it wasn't the case.

"So, Chief," Salvia said, "what's the story? What impossible odds will we have to face now?"

The Chief glanced down at her, and Salvia's words were met by a quirk of the eyebrow.

"You will see. I'll only need you to polish some of your people skills. We'll lay off some lines then, and hope a very special kind of fish take up the bait." The Chief raised his gaze, his eyes now looking straight ahead—at something only he seemed to see. "And then we'll raise our very own brand of hell."

* * *

The mission turned out to be just a small-scale intelligence assignment. While the rest of the band would set out to Judgement Cliff to assist the army in laying siege to Granorg's infamous Sand Fortress, the Chief and the smaller team he'd assembled would have to infiltrate a place that stood far beyond the wastelands.

The capital city of Granorg itself.

Daoud and Mira split way with the Chief and the twins a little before the easternmost part of Gran Plain, which was informally considered to be the beginning of the Granorgite territories. Daoud didn't quite know how the other three would get inside the borders, but the Chief had assured him they would have the means to contact them as soon as they were established in the city.

His and Mira's roles had not been that hard to choose. With the war still raging on, the eastern provinces of Granorg were prowling with cutthroats and rogue soldiers. Rich merchants and nobles seeking to defend their lands apparently flocked to the king of Granorg to be granted a few soldiers for protection, but their requests never moved the ruler's heart of stone. They were then forced to turn to mercenaries and other unsavoury sorts to answer their calls... people like Daoud and Mira, in short.

As they entered the city, Daoud was quickly reminded of the reason why he had sought out work in Alistel instead of finding himself some Granorgite nobleman with a fat purse to protect. The citizens of the capital could not tear their eyes apart from him and Mira. Amongst the pasty white Granorgites, they did stick out like sore thumbs. Some of the passersby seemed only curious, but others watched them with gazes heavy with mistrust. The first and only time Daoud had visited the capital before he had found it annoying, but now their stares truly weighed on him.

"Let it slide," Mira said, startling Daoud.

Daoud offered her a weak grin. "I know," he replied. "I just hope this won't be too much of a trouble for the mission." He snorted. "It's almost as if they've never seen someone who looks just a bit different. It's almost funny. Don't they ever set foot out of their pretty little city?"

"Perhaps they never did," Mira said. "War usually nips the sense of wanderlust at the bud. But enough of this. Let's find the others."

They set out for the marketplace in the western part of the city, where the Chief and the twins were supposedly waiting for them. The streets became narrower and filthier, and Daoud was relieved to find that he and Mira prompted less stares here. The market itself was a welcoming sight; with its merchants peddling their wares in a cheerful mayhem of noises, and the skinny kids deftly making their way through the crowds, giggling with mischief, Daoud could have almost taken it for one of the bazaars back home.

"My lady!" Here a kid was waving to Mira, trying to catch her attention. "You look like one with an eye for quality! My master makes the best armours and shields this side of town! You can't go wrong with anything from Master Gotts!"

"Good sir!" another merchant shouted above the noise. "Would you care for this delicate, finely made pottery? Such a wonderful gift it would make. Is there anyone special in your life at the moment? I would make you a price."

"Good sir and lady, you seem like the sort to get in all sorts of trouble! My poultices have been known to cure many kinds of ailments—fresh wounds, old wounds... I've been told they can even make scars disappear! They've all been made by my daughter, a natural when it comes to healing magic."

Daoud frowned. He stopped to look at the merchant who had spoken, an old man whose face was obscured by a large rimmed hat. The merchant glanced up at him sheepishly, and Daoud oddly felt as though he was being scrutinized... and then suddenly from behind the counter came a young woman with long brown hair tied in a ponytail.

"Daoud!" the girl exclaimed. "Father, I know him! He's one of the mercenaries who protected my friend Marta's caravan when they travelled to Cygnus!" Salvia tilted her head. "It _is_ you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I'm the guy," Daoud replied, playing along with her tale. He turned his gaze to the old man standing next to her, mouthing to him a startled _'Chief?!'_ He hadn't even recognized him! The man's eyes only narrowed in a smile.

"Tell you what," said Salvia, "we should totally go for a drink! My friend was scared out of her wits about that trip down to Cygnus. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

"I wouldn't mind some refreshments," Mira said, stretching her arms above her head. "Unless I'm not invited?"

"No, no, we'll be glad to have you along! And you can come too, you old bore!" Salvia shouted to the young man sitting in the shade behind her—Sage, Daoud recognized him. "I'll show you this one place, it's got the best booze in town! I'll introduce you to some of my friends, too, if you want."

"Friends?" Daoud said. He looked at the Chief again, and the man grinned one of these strange little smirks of his. "Oh, I see what you mean. Mingling a bit. Not a bad idea for a pair of mercenaries looking for work, eh, Mira?"

* * *

Before Salvia led them to the bar where they would find her new 'friends', the Chief took Daoud and Mira aside.

"Are you well-versed on Granorgite politics?" the man asked. "I won't ask you to be the ones to negotiate, but..."

"All I know is that the king isn't too popular these days," Daoud said, shrugging.

The Chief chuckled.

"That would be everything you would need to know, really." Then, he got closer to Daoud and Mira, and whispered, "because that's the kind of talk our new _friends_ would like to hear."

"Oh," Daoud said, glancing at Mira. She'd raised an eyebrow too. "Are our friends well organized or are they just...?"

"This is what I want to find out," the Chief replied. He motioned for Mira and Daoud to walk beside him as he spoke. "I've investigated many of these little groups over the years, and they have always... _disappointed_ me."

"The king must've struck them down before they had time to grow," Mira said.

"Yes," the Chief said, "and this is why this group in particular is so intriguing. To have survived this far, they must have someone looking out for them. Someone in the right place."

"That doesn't mean they'll let us join," Daoud said. "We're not fans of good old King Victor, but we're still working for—"

"Shush, you fool!" Mira said, glowering.

"This is the other thing we will need to assess," the Chief said. "Our gracious benefactors would be very interested to know whether or not they'd be ready to extend their friendship further. I admit I am curious as well."

The Chief couldn't well say it out loud, but Daoud got his meaning. _Now, all we need to see is if they're desperate enough to work with a bunch of Alistellian sympathizers._ Daoud couldn't say he was very hopeful about their prospects.

The tavern was tiny; it seemed very much like the kind of place that was only frequented by the same crowd every night. With just one sweeping look, however, Daoud noted something that was out of the ordinary. The patrons were all young, too young. Except for the moustached gentleman tending the bar, and a couple of older men and women scattered about, most of them seemed barely over twenty.

Their entrance brought most of the patrons' discussions to an abrupt end. Daoud took a step forward, finding himself the object of a number of cold stares. He could only give them a wry quirk of the mouth in response.

Salvia followed him inside, scowling. "The hell's your problem?!" Her words earned her a few dismissive mutters from a group of young men sitting nearby. "Hey! Our money's as good as yours!"

"Sal, pipe it down," Sage said in a hiss.

"Sal?" A new voice came from farther inside the bar. It belonged to a youth who was slowly rising from his chair. "It _is_ you! You came!"

"Will! It's good to see you! I've brought my father and my idiot brother along, plus a few friends." She frowned, the perfect picture of doubt. "Is it okay? I know you weren't expecting other people, but—"

"It is, it is," the young man named Will said, laughing. He scrutinized Daoud and the others, his gaze finally stopping on the Chief as the latter surveyed the bar. "Your dad, 'specially. Without your poultices, sir, that gash on my arm wouldn't have healed as nicely."

"Is that so?" the Chief said, sounding genuinely amicable. "Then I'm glad."

Soon, they were seated with the young man and the rest of his friends. There was a lanky youth named Otto, and his cousin, stony-faced Kurt. The only girl of the group was called Iris, and while she laughed loudly and often, Daoud could also see her running a finger alongside the blade she hid beneath her jacket. The last was a teen named Pierre, who constantly had to get up and run after his toddler sister, Claire. The little girl seemed to enjoy tottering her way across the tavern, much to the amusement of the other patrons. When Mira sat down next to him, however, little Claire stopped dead in her tracks, then quickly latched herself at the woman, her big eyes shining with sudden admiration.

In the end, the first night Daoud and the others spent with these would-be rebels wound up being uneventful. Daoud learned that Will had first ran into the Chief a few months prior, and had since then bought most of his remedies and ointments from the man (Daoud had suppressed a cough at this - the Chief moonlighted as a Granorgite medicine man in his spare time?!) Will had then met Salvia and Sage when the twins had arrived in Granorg two weeks ago, and he and Salvia had immediately hit it off and became fast friends.

The next meetings were equally unfruitful. Daoud was surprised to find himself liking the poor fellas; still, nothing indicated that Will and his friends were starting to feel the same. Daoud had to commend them for their secrecy. He hadn't expected a ragtag group to exhibit such professionalism when it came to protecting their hidden interests.

"Ugh," Salvia said one night as they all met in the room the Chief had rented for the operation. "Prudent bunch, are they? If the Chief hadn't said anything about them being rebels, I wouldn't have known it." She collapsed on her bed, sighing. "How are we supposed to even broach the subject of funding their little coup?"

Neither Mira nor Daoud could answer her. They had been ordered to offer their skills as mercenaries to the rebels, but the occasion had never even presented itself. Soon a silence fell across the room, the only thing breaking the quiet being the sound of Sage absentmindedly plucking the string on his bow.

"You know," Salvia suddenly began. "I've always wondered why we all do these kinds of things. Why did you guys become mercenaries? We _do_ kind of kill people for money, It's a little scary when you stop to think about it."

Daoud stared at her. Now, _that_ was funny, Salvia finding herself a philosophical streak.

"I wanted to learn how to fight," Mira said. "This world is not kind to the weak, and I..." Her voice trailed off. Daoud wondered what dark memories she was revisiting.

"I get what you wanna say," Salvia replied. "Me... well, I guess I just want to put some money aside, and then find myself a nice girl to settle down with." She started to blush profusely. "S-someone with nice blue eyes, maybe."

Daoud bit back a laugh. Ever since they had caught a glimpse of Alistel's Lieutenant General Viola, Salvia had been crushing on the woman like mad.

"What about you, Sage?" Mira asked.

The boy shrugged. His cheeks were a little red too. "I just want to keep this idiot out of trouble," he mumbled, pointing to his sister.

"What?! Why, you little—!"

Mira gave a hearty laugh, while Daoud himself chuckled. Then, he realized the others were now looking at him.

"Me?" he said, scratching his head. "Well, it's nothing special, really. I just want to survive, that's all." _And not die of starvation_ , he added in his mind, thinking back on things that had happened long ago, things he wished he could forget. _Like pretty much everyone else back home..._

"That's the most sensible thing I've heard tonight," a voice said dryly. The Chief had come back from his errands. That strange blood-red gaze of his swept across the room, pausing on each face intently.

"Really?" Salvia said. "That's all, Chief, you've got no dream of your own?"

The man didn't answer. There was something freaky in the way he just stared at Salvia without a word.

"Alright, alright, forget I asked..."

"No, no, you don't need to apologize, Salvia." The man's natural amicability seemed to be back, although his eyes weren't smiling like his mouth did. "I'm a man of simple taste. I wish for nothing but a roof above my head and a bit of bread and water, figuratively speaking."

The man's words didn't ring hollow, but Daoud wondered all the same. He met the Chief's gaze, trying to find another clue, but only found the usual barrier of cool courtesy. Although... was there the hint of something else there? Daoud shook his head. No, he didn't need to know. Every man was entitled to a few secrets, after all.

And as though he was reading Daoud's mind, the Chief gave the slightest of smiles.

* * *

The first breakthrough was finally made by Mira.

They had been sitting around a few pints, chatting and swapping stories as usual, when she noticed the sword hanging on Will's hip.

"Is that," she said, sounding almost incredulous, "is that a Cygnan Sand Sword? How did you manage to get your hands on such a thing?"

"Oh," said Will, "that's a long story. I'd rather not bore you with it."

Mira was apparently not impressed by that response.

"It takes a certain skill to wield it properly. You must be quite the swordsman, Will."

Otto, Iris and Pierre burst into laughter as Will turned red as a beet.

"Will, good?" Iris said, snickering. "Nah, the one good fighter in the group is Otto."

"Will hasn't even managed to beat Marty, and the kid's just fourteen!" Pierre added.

"Marty?" said Daoud.

Will and the others tensed, and it seemed as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped several degrees.

"A friend of ours," Will replied. "His dad's kind of an arse, though, and he doesn't let him go out that often."

"Sad, really," Iris said. "He's such a cutie."

"Iris, he's _fourteen!"_

"I hadn't meant it that way, Pierre! God, you make me sound like some sort of _sicko_ —"

"So you know what a Sand Sword is, Mira?" Will asked. It was such a blatant attempt to change topics that Daoud wondered just how important that Marty kid was. "Would you like to teach me how to use it? You kinda look like someone who knows their way around a sword."

Mira offered a genuine smile. "Of course I would. But we would need a place to do so. From what I've understood, your country does not look kindly on people drawing their blades in the streets."

"No, the laws are pretty strict on that. The king's a bit of a paranoid whacko, you know."

"Will!" Pierre exclaimed. "Don't say things like that out loud! If the wrong people heard you..."

"Ah! Um, sorry..."

"Don't worry, Pierre," said Salvia. "You should hear my father talk about this. He really thinks the king's making a mess out of everything."

"And Mira and me, we're foreigners. I don't know if you were aware, but in Cygnus and Alistel, your king's kind of a laughingstock."

"Great," Pierre mumbled. "As if we Granorgites didn't look bad enough."

"Interesting," Otto's cousin Kurt said. It almost startled Daoud; the man was usually so quiet. "You've been to Alistel, then."

Daoud looked at him directly in the eyes. He was venturing on dangerous terrain here. "I did. Filthy place, but there's money to be had if you know how to swing a sword. I wouldn't mind working in Granorg, though, I like the people better."

"The climate's better for the lungs, too," Mira added.

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. Otto and Iris looked at them as though they had never really seen them, while Kurt and Pierre folded their arms across their chests, their expressions surprisingly guarded.

"So I guess by asking you to teach me it counts as your first job in Granorg?" Will said. "I don't have much to give, but..."

"We'll find a way to compromise," Mira replied. She glanced at Daoud, her eyes creasing in a smile of victory. "I'm sure we'll find ourselves some common interests."

* * *

They all left the bar early that night. Salvia, Sage and Mira followed Will and Otto to one of the secret spots they used to spar, a backalley not far from the tavern, while Daoud feigned a headache, and went back to the inn to report to the Chief.

The man was pleased with the development.

"Still, your mention of Alistel seemed to have put them on edge," the Chief said with a sigh. His gaze seemed to get lost in the flickering of the torch by his desk. "They might be not so willing to do anything with us if they knew exactly who sent us."

"It'd be in their best interest to trust us," said Daoud. "Now that we've learned a bit about them... well, they won't be able to do anything by themselves. They're just a bunch of kids. They're gonna get slaughtered if they try to go against real soldiers."

"Hmm," was the Chief's response. "It is why I want to find their benefactor. Perhaps _they_ will want to hear us out, since they might realize just what they will be up against."

"You sure they have someone like that? To me, they just seem like a couple of kids singing revolutionary songs because it makes them think they've got a future."

"I just know," the Chief replied. He looked up from his papers to glance at Daoud. For a moment, the man frowned, almost as if he expected someone else to stand there and was disappointed to find Daoud instead. The Chief quickly went back to his papers. Yes, there was a definite edge to his mouth now.

"We must tread carefully, now. The quickest way to scare our real prize away would be to act too eager." He lifted his gaze again, staring at Daoud with cold, focused eyes. "Continue with Mira's approach." On the desk, he had written: _Don't bring up anything about the king or a possible rebellion for now._

"Understood," Daoud said. "We'll do as you asked."

* * *

A week passed as they settled in an uneasy routine with the members of the fledgling resistance. Daoud did his best to go easy on them when they sparred, but Mira was ruthless, often gifting them with a couple of nasty bruises which were then treated by Salvia.

The Chief kept them updated on the progress of the rest of their mercenary band and the Alistellian army. While their comrades would sneak out from Judgement Cliff to attack the Sand Fortress from the south, Alistel would launch their attack from the east.

"It's not going to work," the Chief had said after he'd finished telling all of this to Daoud. He offered no further explanation to this blunt statement.

As time went by, more street kids showed up to watch their training sessions. Otto tried to shoo away them away, but they always flocked back, gathering and sitting on a bunch of old crates to cheer for their favourite fighters.

One night, Daoud had been the only one to leave for their makeshift sparring grounds. He found the alleyway crawling with kids. They ran up to him, tugging at his sleeve, excitedly asking him if he could lend them his sword for a swing or two. He was completely surrounded when Otto finally came to save him.

"Come on, you brats, _scram!"_ Some of the youths listened to him, but the others just laughed in his face. One—a gangly blond boy who seemed to have only recently eased into his teenage years—even rolled his eyes at him.

"Let them watch, Otto," Daoud told him. He looked at the kids, their dirty hair, tattered clothes and gap-toothed smiles sparking a certain fondness in his chest. "I remember learning a lot from watching the adults fight when I was their age."

"Hm. If you say so." Otto then drew his blade, and for a few moments afterwards the topic was dropped.

Otto might have possessed some skills—more so than Will, that was sure—but his endurance as a fighter was lacking. Their sparring match was as swift as it was one-sided, and Daoud managed to head back to the inn even before the sun had started to set.

He was greeted by a curious sight as he entered the room: the Chief was sitting on a bed, one bloody leg propped up on cushions, while Salvia was casting a healing spell on a rather nasty looking wound.

"What the hell?" Daoud fought to keep his voice to a bare minimum. "What happened?"

In one corner of the room, Sage was quietly seething. Mira, for her part, had removed her leather armour, and her shoulder was covered by a now reddened bandage.

"Some guardsmen attacked us," the tall woman replied.

"What? Why?" Daoud's jaw tightened. "Did they figure out who we are?"

"I don't think so," Sage said. "They just seemed like a bunch of idiots out for blood."

"They spotted me because of my sword," Mira explained. "They often hound people with weapons to find dissidents. The Chief intervened, and..."

"Dammit, of all the— _damn!_ I just hope it won't blow our cover."

"Daoud," the Chief suddenly said, his tone blunt and cold. The others turned to face the older man, startled at the animosity now flowing out of him. "You idiot. You clumsy, clumsy, _idiot_."

"What—?!" Daoud exclaimed, not quite understanding. Before he could do anything, Sage rushed to the door; when he kicked it open, they saw a small, cloaked figure scrambling out of the corridor.

 _One of the kids followed me back here?!_ Daoud realized with a jolt.

"After him!" the Chief shouted.

His words weren't even necessary. The sight of the boy had kicked years' worth of finely honed soldier's reflexes into high gear. The four of them—Daoud, Mira, and the twins—sprung out of the inn to a chorus of shrieks and yells coming from the surrounding civilians. The boy was already well ahead of them.

Soon, Daoud realized where exactly the kid must have been headed. When the familiar alleyways and broken-down houses came into view, Daoud had lost sight of his quarry. The boy had already disappeared into the tavern.

Daoud and the others burst inside, and the kid yelled something the former couldn't quite catch. From out the corner of his eye he could see Will and Iris and Kurt and all the others rising from their seats, their blades sliding out of their scabbards.

Otto ran to the kid's side. "To the back room! Now!"

The blond boy started to protest. "No! I won't leave you!!"

Daoud didn't have the chance to hear the rest of his words; one man was already upon him, his dagger slashing at his unprotected flank. Daoud drew his own blade and parried the blow, the move quickly followed by a headbutt that sent his assailant crumbling to the ground.

"Daoud!" Salvia shouted above the chaos, "chase the kid and Otto! We'll take care of things here!"

Daoud loudly swore and set out for the door behind the counter. Panting, he erupted into the room, blade at the ready.

Otto and the boy were hovering near what seemed to be— _wait, is that the entrance to a secret passage?_ The two froze in their tracks, looking at Daoud with eyes round with shock.

"Don't move!" Daoud said through grit teeth. "I'm not here to—!"

His words had the opposite effect. Otto launched himself at Daoud with a strangled cry. His movements were so erratic, so unfocused, that only pure raw fear could have fuelled them.

With a swear, Daoud deflected Otto's assault, before bringing down his own blade in a counter.

 _"Otto!_ " Daoud heard the boy shout as blood spurted out of his companion's neck. The warm liquid splattered in Daoud's face, and he squeezed his eyes shut, emitting another curse.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see that the boy was rushing toward him. A wordless sound of fury and grief escaped the kid's mouth as Daoud met his blade with his own. The boy's blue-green eyes were alight with an anger as cold as a winter sea.

"You stupid—!" Daoud began, but the boy stepped back, placing himself between Daoud and Otto's inert form. Daoud took a step toward them—it had been a involuntary movement, one born more of reflexes rather than conscious thought.

The boy sprung forward in response to Daoud's advance.

 _"You bastard!"_ the kid roared as he raised his dagger again.

From behind, Daoud's ears caught the sounds of new voices, and he tensed as he heard Salvia shout his name. It was all the boy needed to get closer to Daoud— _too_ close.

Daoud reacted as all experienced soldiers would. In a blink of an eye, his blade had disappeared into the kid's belly. The boy let out a soft pleading sound, before tumbling to the ground.

"Damnmit, Daoud!" In a flash, Salvia was by the boy's side as Daoud stiffened, struck numb by disgust. "He's just a kid!"

"I know," Daoud replied. "I-I wasn't thinking... if he hadn't attacked me... "

"They're all kids," Mira said softly. Other than the wound she had sustained while fighting the city guards, she had not suffered a scratch. Her longsword was covered in blood, however. "They must be pretty desperate to let children into their ranks." Her voice was bitter.

"Dammit!" Salvia shouted again. "I–I lost him!"

"They attacked us," Sage said as he stared coldly at his sister. "We didn't have a choice."

"Still a messy business," Daoud replied. He passed a hand over his face and winced when his fingers touched the still-warm blood. "How are we gonna tell this to the Chief?"

"You won't need to," Sage said.

Daoud whirled on his feet. The Chief was standing silently under the doorway, looking at the carnage with a vaguely displeased expression. Then his gaze found the corpse of the boy. Slowly, his eyes widened, and a hint of _something_ settled into his face. He limped his way toward where Daoud and Salvia were kneeling by the dead boy's side.

"They didn't give us any time to explain," Sage said. The Chief passed by him without a word or a look; he seemed not to care for Sage's excuses.

"I tried to keep this one alive, but... " his sister added. She stopped, however, when the Chief went to his knees as well, his face a blank mask. They all watched with genuine confusion as the man brought a hand to the boy's face to brush a strand of hair out of his now empty blue-green eyes. The gesture was strangely tender.

"Sir?" Daoud said. The Chief's silence was starting to unnerve him. "Sir, what's wrong—?"

The last bit of his sentence drowned in blood. The red liquid bubbled at his lips, and Daoud choked, not quite understanding. Quietly, he dropped his gaze; the hilt of a dagger was coming out of his chest...

Daoud crumbled to the floor to the sounds of his comrades' shouts. A fog quickly dispersed itself into his mind, the only things he could clearly see being a pair of red eyes seething with bloodlust and rage...

* * *

"You have returned," Lippti said. "It's been a while."

The man pacing in front of her paid her words no mind.

"The life you had built over these last four years was quite interesting," Teo said. The way he had said that last word made it sound almost derogatory.

The man ignored him. He was shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

"How could they—no, he couldn't have had any say in this, they must have lured him with some false promises, he's too young, and so _naïve_ —" he muttered, clearly panicking.

"Heinrich," Lippti began.

 _"Heiss,"_ her brother interrupted her. The man finally levelled his gaze to them. "Why are you here? You had made quite the life for yourself. Weren't you happy?"

"Happy _?_ _Happy_ , you say?!"

"But what you've said to your subordinates was true, was it not?" the boy said. "We know you. We know deep down you only want a simple life, free of the burdens that have been placed on your shoulders since your birth. You weren't lying to these people. And yet, you are here now."

The man's left hand tightened into a fist. "What sort of mind games are you playing now? What do you want?"

"This timeline has shown us that you are not as detached an observer as you would like to be," Lippti said. "That's why you are here. That's why you drove a knife into that poor man's heart as soon as you realized that—"

"Shut up," the man growled. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ " His voice flared into the emptiness. "Oh god, why, why, _why_ does this always happen...?"

"The world doesn't always want to move too far from its intended course." Teo's words prompted a glare from the man.

"Another riddle! I'm sick and tired of them!" He buried his face into his hands. "Intended course? What is that even supposed to mean?!"

"That is—"

 _"Don't,"_ the man said, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter—or sobs. It was hard to tell. "I know what kind of nonsense you're going to sprout on me. I've had enough of your lies as well."

"What are you going to do?" Lippti asked Heinrich—or Heiss, as he answered to now.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Heiss said venomously. "Alistel is a stronger threat to Granorg than I would have thought. And not a single dissident movement managed to make a chink in Victor's armour. I must go back into the fray to make sure Ernst does not inherit a country that has been ground into dust."

He could not see it, but a flash of triumph illuminated the twins' gazes. One blink, and it was already gone.

"Do what you must," Teo said. After a while, he added: "but do try to stay your hand. You claim lives far too easily."

The look Heiss gave him at these words would have made the boy shiver if he was capable of such things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, I tried a little something new here, with Daoud's POV. Also, from this point on, you could almost start a count of "Ernst/Stocke dies trying to save/help someone else". Not that he didn't die a lot before that, but it might get worse from now on ^^' (and as always, thanks to my beta ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy!)


	14. Chapter 12 - Tools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The last years had sapped more of his strength than he cared to admit.

He'd first set out to find one of the many bands of mercenaries that lingered near the Alistellian border, determined to make a life for himself far, far away from everything and everyone he had ever known. Every sellsword worth his or her salt had laughed at him—here he was, a tiny wisp of a man, skinny and pale like death—but when they'd caught sight of what he could truly do, they had stopped grinning. And when slowly, very slowly they came to realize that he miraculously survived anything the universe seemed to throw at him, one by one the mercenaries started to leave their own guild to serve under him, seeking to profit from the good fortune that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

And thus, within one year Heiss had assembled a sizable force under his command.

He had toiled, _hard_ , for this kind of result. Painfully, he'd learned to know each man and woman serving as his subordinates. There'd be no repeat of what had happened in Skalla. He only needed to give one glance to the mangled fingers on his right hand—the hand that was now useless, the hand that was just _dead weight_ —to convince himself of this fact. He would _slaughter_ anyone who would just entertain the idea of betraying him.

But with the fatigue that had accumulated over the years came a sense of satisfaction unlike any other he'd ever felt. He had made a new name for himself. There was very little that linked Heiss, the leader of a hundred-strong band of mercenaries to Heinrich, the man who had been born without even the basic right to exist.

Heiss had no care for the shape of the land, or the names and deeds of men and women from ages past. He had no need for the knowledge hidden in the ancient books the boy Heinrich had loved so much, or the language of flowers. He had no thought to spare for anyone but himself—how could he, with no friends or family to speak of?

Or at least that's what Heinrich desperately tried to make himself _believe_.

"How could they—no, he couldn't have had any say in this, they must have lured him with some false promises, he's too young, and so _naïve_ —" Heiss—Heinrich _—Heiss_ said. He wanted to scrub clean the sight of Ernst's dead body from his eyes, but his hands wouldn't move. They just kept shaking.

One of the twins said his name and Heinrich—Heiss, Heiss, _Heiss_ —looked up with blurry eyes.

"Weren't you happy?" Teo said.

The sound that escaped Heiss's mouth at this barely resembled something out of a human language.

The boy was speaking again. "But what you've said to your subordinates was true, was it not? We know you. We know deep down you only want a simple life, free of the burdens that have been placed on your shoulders since your birth. You weren't lying to these people. And yet, you are here now."

Heiss wanted to hurl insults at the twins, but the words he chose were too kind—far kinder than they deserved. "What sort of mind games are you playing now?" he snarled. "What do you want?"

"This timeline has shown us that you are not as detached an observer as you would like to be," Lippti said. The rest of her words were drowned by the blood angrily thumping in his ears. Heiss screamed and screamed at her to shut up.

"The world doesn't always want to move too far from its intended course," Teo attempted to continue.

"Another riddle! I'm sick and tired of them! Intended course? What is that even supposed to mean?!"

The boy opened his mouth again, and Heiss snapped at him. Teo promptly shushed; Heiss could not see his face from here—everything was far too hazy—but he could feel the very contempt seeping from every inch of Teo's being. The blood was boiling in Heinri— _Heiss'_ veins. He grit his teeth together. He needed to lash out at something. He needed to crush, maim, _tear apart_ —

No. He needed to _focus_. He would not advance if he let himself be controlled by mere emotion. As the tension escaped from his shoulders, Heiss became vaguely aware of a pain in his right leg. He glanced down; he had forgotten about the injury he had sustained earlier in the scuffle with the Granorgite guardsmen.

"What are you going to do?" Lippti said, taking him out of his thoughts. The hint of compassion in her voice almost drove Heiss into another fit of rage. The pain now flaring in his leg did not help the matter.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" he said. "Alistel is a stronger threat to Granorg than I would have thought. And not a single dissident movement managed to make a chink in Victor's armour. I must go back into the fray to make sure Ernst does not inherit a country that has been ground into dust."

"Do what you must," was Teo's dismissive answer, "but do try to stay your hand. You claim lives far too easily."

And for the first time in his life, but not certainly not the last, Heiss wondered if the twins could be killed.

* * *

Heiss chose to use a node that took him more than a month before his failed infiltration of Granorg. The Chronicle brought him to a small, decrepit room, which he remembered being in an inn somewhere south of Lazvil Hills.

In Historia, the adrenaline coursing through his veins had made it easier to forget he was bleeding rather profusely, but now there was no ignoring it. Heiss stumbled out of the chair where he had been apparently seated back then, wincing as he tried to keep steady on his feet. He managed to make it to his bed, where he used some cloth he ripped from his bedsheets to fasten around the bandages Salvia had already wrapped around the wound. After he was finished, he staggered his way out of the room, biting down a grunt of pain. He searched through his memories; he had chosen this node out of a certainty that he had been accompanied by Salvia on this particular day, but now he could not recall where he could find her. As he limped across the corridor, a peal of laughter coming from another room caught his attention. Heiss hadn't even had the time to move further when the door to the room opened, and Salvia stepped out. As she turned to him, the amusement of her face gradually gave in to surprise and horror.

"Chief!" she cried out, "what's happened? Y–you're _bleeding!"_

Heiss could not tell her that he had a nasty run-in with the spear of a Granorgite soldier, half a continent away, and so the biting remark he'd meant to give was replaced by a pained groan. Salvia ran to his side, quickly followed by her brother, who apparently had been in the room with her.

As Heiss' head began to swim, he heard the sound of footsteps rushing toward him, and a pair of strong arms hoisted him up. His legs had started to give up under his weight.

"Carry him to my room, quick!" Salvia said. Sage—and Mira, it was Mira who had caught him in the corridor—put him onto a bed, where Salvia took a look at the hastily bandaged wound. "How did you—?"

"It doesn't matter," Heiss interrupted her with a snarl.

She bit down her lower lip, peeling the cloth bandage. "Someone had already started to treat this. With magic, even. I can see some scar tissue beginning to form."

"You went to your room as soon as we got our keys," Sage said, "and I'm pretty sure you never left it after that. What happened?"

Heiss silenced him with a look.

"Are there more enemies nearby?" Salvia said. "Did they—?"

"I don't pay you to run off that mouth of yours," Heiss said. "Just do your job!" Mira and Sage's faces darkened, but Salvia finally did as she was bid, scowling all the while.

Afterwards, she sent him back to his room with a poultice of her making and strict instructions to prevent further infection. As he sat in bed with the ointment in his hands, Heiss looked at the now sealed wound with a certain weariness. The skin was still raw and bright red, and the pain hadn't completely gone away. _Isla would have done a better job_ , he thought forlornly. Something heavy seemed to settle in his gut. The thought had been as sudden as it was unwelcome. Heiss cursed himself. He did not need to concern himself with such phantoms. He did _not_.

 _But even after all these years, you still can't manage to shake them away, can you?_ a hateful voice murmured into Heiss' mind. Again, he saw Ernst's corpse and Daoud's face as the knife plunged into his flesh. He swore again. The man he was trying to be wouldn't have been moved by the sight of the dead prince of an enemy country, at least not enough to thoughtlessly stab his murderer in retaliation. He was still weak, so very weak.

As the rays of the setting sun peeking through the window dimmed down, his anger receded, replaced by a weariness that seemed to crush his very bones. Still, sleep never came to him, and he spent the night half-awake, troubled by the foggy memories of the man whose name he had cast away.

* * *

The next morning, Heiss tried to act as if the events of last night had never happened. The night had given him enough time to remember just why he was here. He and the men he had gathered were about to meet with the Alistellian higher-ups who had ordered them to infiltrate Granorg in the first place. The Alistellian encampment was only a bit further away, lain out a few miles from the first line of Granorgite defences: the Sand Fortress.

The troops stationed outside of the Fortress were led by one Lieutenant General Viola, although it was because of her superior, High General Hugo, that Heiss and his soldiers had been brought here. Heiss understood the lady knight had been opposed to the idea of using mercenaries, but she could not go against the Prophet's Voice, even when the man himself had spent most of the war far away from the battlefield, safely tucked within the capital of Alistel.

This attack on the Fortress had been one of his ideas as well. From a timeline past, Heiss knew that the attempt was futile (although he would have been able to foresee that even without the White Chronicle). The fact that Lieutenant General Viola had still managed to save a large number of her troops back then had nevertheless earned Heiss' respect.

He and a number of his mercenaries arrived at the Alistellian camp near midday. An officer escorted Heiss and the others to the Lieutenant General's tent; they were treated along the way with cold stares from every Alistellian soldier they encountered. Only Heiss was then ushered into Viola's tent, where he found two men-at-arms guarding the entrance and the General's aide, a formidable woman with broad features. Major Edwige hadn't liked Heiss much in the previous timelines. As Heiss peered closer at her expression, he became aware that little seemed to have changed in the present iteration.

After giving him one disdainful once-over, the Major began to speak. "You've arrived earlier than we agreed on. The General wasn't expecting you until later in the afternoon."

Heiss wasn't one to be deterred by such a cold welcome. "It just so happens that I have information that might change your view of the current situation."

The Major narrowed her eyes. "Is that so?"

"I know your superiors have no idea of the trap that lies ahead of you." Heiss folded his arms, boldly meeting the taller woman's gaze. "The Fortress is equipped to deal with your usual siege engines. Sending your people there with your current strategy is nothing short of slaughter."

Major Edwige swiftly advanced towards Heiss, stopping only when she could tower over him. "That's not your call to make, _mercenary_."

"That's not your precious general's call either, is it not?" Heiss said. "If the brass tells her to jump, she will have to ask, 'how high'? And they will stop at nothing to take the Fortress from Granorg."

"I will not allow you to speak of my lady or of the ones we serve that way. Curb your tongue or the deal is off."

"I'm only trying to help, Major."

"Cease that insolence or—"

"Is there something wrong, Edwige?" came another voice. Heiss felt a cool breeze entering the tent as a young woman, resplendent in her silver armour, made her way inside. The two guards and Major Edwige snapped to attention, offering a swift salute.

"Lieutenant General!" Major Edwige exclaimed. "I thought you wouldn't back until..."

"At ease, Major," Lieutenant General Viola responded. Her eyes were fixed upon Heiss, reminding him oddly of the gaze of a bird of prey even though they were a piercing blue.

"The leader of one of the mercenary companies has already arrived," Major Edwige said, motioning over to Heiss.

"You can call me Heiss," the latter added, slightly bowing.

"You came earlier than I expected," Viola said, "but this doesn't really matter. What can I do for you, Mr. Heiss?"

Heiss looked upon the lady knight—and the very reason why he had said to the twins that Alistel was a greater threat than he had expected—and attempted his best smile.

"As I was telling your subordinate, I believe this operation is beyond hopeless." The General frowned at this. She seemed about to counter his claim when Heiss raised a hand. "Please, hear me out. I am here to be of assistance." _Yes, I only mean to help, really._ It was easier to smile now _. I have always aimed to please, after all..._

* * *

Heiss' years in self-imposed exile had allowed him to observe his brother's kingdom in a new light. Back when he was trapped in Castle Granorg, he had truly believed in the might of the Granorgite army. Victor poured a lot of the country's resources to maintain an adequate offensive and defensive force (so much that Heiss had thought back then that it was the source of many of the realm's financial problems). He'd truly believed the war would end with Granorg standing victorious over her ages-old enemy.

But now that he viewed the war from the opposite angle, Heiss saw how wholly mistaken he had been. Alistel was small, and while it lacked the manpower and funding available to Granorg, its soldiers were unusually devoted to their country and even more to their commanding officers. The people serving under Lieutenant General Viola exemplified this perfectly; it was clear that her very name lit a burning sense of loyalty in the hearts of her men. They would gladly give their lives for their lady and her prophet. The soldiers of Granorg had nothing to inspire such devotion. How could they, with an incompetent such as Victor leading them to chaos and ruin?

Left to their own devices, the Granorgites could be crushed by Alistel in only a few years.

Such thoughts had been behind every word, every scrap of information Heiss presented to the Lieutenant General. He watched her carefully as they spoke, noting her expressions and body language. She was a guarded woman, and one who obviously did not want to trust him. He hoped she would not prove useless to him for this reason.

The sun was setting when Heiss finally got his leave. Only Mira had kept to her post and waited for him outside the tent, the others having scattered through the Alistellian camp. Heiss did not care. He knew that they would return when needed. As he and Mira passed through the encampment, he watched the interactions between the Alistellian soldiers and his mercenaries, partly to know whether or not there could be anything that could prove troublesome later on, partly for his own amusement. They did not seem to get along much, for the most part. They were a rowdy bunch, his people. _Too_ _rowdy, perhaps, for what I have in mind now._

They got back to the inn late at night. As he lay in bed, watching the moon and the stars from the open window, Heiss sighed. _And now, all I can do is wait._

The Lieutenant General had decided to hold off her attack for now. For the lady knight, the choice had come between following her superiors' harebrained schemes and ensuring the well-being of the men and women who served under her. Viola craved to do the latter, but she was honour-bound to act in accordance with the High General's commands, idiotic as they may have been.

Heiss had offered her to send a team—larger than the one that had accompanied him in the latest timeline—to lay down a web of spies and informants across the territory of Granorg. Over the last years, Heiss had grown appalled at the Alistellians' disregard for a good information network. Even his idiot brother hadn't been so careless (although the man did seem to prefer using his secret police to chase after shadows on the wall). Among the people he'd sent away was Daoud; Heiss still wished for him a thousand deaths, each and every more one excruciating that the last, but to discard him would just be a waste of a skilled and efficient soldier. And there were still an uncountable number of painful and tragic fates the young man could have the misfortune to meet later on. Heiss had learned that nothing came from being too hasty, after all.

It took one week, and Heiss finally had something else at hand to pacify the Lieutenant General. He was met by Viola's cool gaze as he was welcomed into her tent, but the General's silver brows raised slightly as he unfolded the item on her desk.

"Where in the Prophet's name did you obtain something like this?" Major Edwige asked. Along with her and the Lieutenant General, the leaders of two mercenary companies were attending this meeting. They exchanged a few hushed words at the sight of Heiss' gift.

"I have my sources," was Heiss' response. "They have never given me reasons to doubt their expertise, if you need to know." The Major scowled, but added nothing else.

"Construction plans are good," the Lieutenant General said, "but even if we find weaknesses that we could exploit, we still do not have enough men to storm the Fortress, if the numbers of Granorgites standing guard are as you told us, Mr. Heiss. Not without suffering from heavy casualties, at the very least."

 _Your High Command obviously doesn't care about that_ , Heiss wanted to say, but he kept mum. "Isn't that why we're here?" he said instead.

"According to our contract anyway," the tallest and thinnest of the two captains added.

The General sighed. She knew as well as Heiss that their added numbers wouldn't matter much. "Your men would be butchered alongside mine."

"I see," the other mercenary captain said. She was a stout old woman. "Your High Command didn't mention this to us."

"What would you have us do, then?" Heiss asked, ignoring the old mercenary. She scoffed at him, but he could not care less.

Viola's blue eyes narrowed. _Ah, kind of stumped there, are you, General?_

"I do not have much of a choice. As long as Granorg holds the Fortress, peace will not come to Alistel's borders. We will have to make sacrifices."

Heiss stayed silent for a bit, feigning resignation. "I hope your men will see it that way, General. Mine... well, it will serve our cause that they tend to be quite the daredevils. Money and the sweet smell of glory will be enough to draw them in."

The two other captains exchanged looks, having possibly come to the same conclusion.

The General's lips were a thin, pale line. "Let's pray their nonchalance won't cost any more lives than it is necessary."

Heiss offered another smile. "Oh, I assure you, it won't be a problem. With your lead, I am certain this operation will be a success."

Lieutenant General Viola's eyes blazed for the span of a second; she no doubt had detected he was not being completely honest, but knew she could not do a thing about it.

Her usually cool and collected act was back in a flash, however, and it was with a determined set to her jaw that she began detailing their strategy. Heiss watched with great interest, although a bit of disappointment crept into his heart; it was too bad that he could not convince her to leave behind her country and her precious prophet. She would have been even more of a formidable weapon in the hands of a capable master.

* * *

The beginning of the operation brought memories of the assault on Skalla. As he had done back then, Heiss and his subordinates were to do everything in their power to facilitate the entry of the real offensive force—the thousands of soldiers serving under the Lieutenant General.

The Sand Fortress was old, built in ancient times when the Old Empire feared that their fragile alliance with the Satyros would stretch too thin and pull apart. When the Empire had crumbled, the Fortress had fallen into disrepair until Heiss' great-grandfather had thought to use it against the newly born threat of Alistel.

There were still several parts in the Fortress' foundations that were in dire need of repair. The Granorgite engineers had done their best to deal the Imperials' mysterious and sometimes plain bizarre construction plans, but a few of these areas were yet to be completely restored. Of course, the locations of these places were among the best kept secrets of Granorg.

But for a member of the Granorgite royal family—who was the bearer of the White Chronicle as well—it was a matter of laughable simpleness.

On the night before the attack, Heiss and a few of his men skulked under the cover of the dark to set explosives in certain specific locations. When Heiss had suggested this plan to the Lieutenant General, she had believed it impossible. "You could be seen," she had argued. Heiss had assured her with a grin that they would not.

The fighting started at the crack of day. The air was crisp, the sun unforgiving and relentless. Heiss himself had stayed hidden near the barricades through the night; now, he only needed the right signal to complete his task. As the figure of Viola's army carved a looming shadow against the horizon, the Granorgites guarding the fortifications began to prepare for battle. They were not the tired, frightened soldiers King Garland had forcibly ejected out of Skalla in one of the many dead timelines Heiss had lived through. They raised their bows in perfect accord, and when their officer gave the word, they began to rain death upon their enemies.

Arrows filled up the morning sky, darkening the pale blue. Across the field south of the fortress, the bravest of Viola's soldiers—those who had volunteered for the ungrateful task of carrying the ladders and rams to the fortifications—were being slain by the dozen. Among them was a large part of Heiss's company. They were being slaughtered, cut in their tracks lengths away from their objective. Still, it was necessary. They diverted attention from the real threat—the one waiting in the shadows of the barricades, the one biding for its time.

Heiss stole his way closer to the wall. Over the chaotic sounds of battle—arrows piercing the air, men and women screaming as they died—soon flared a clarion, clear and loud. Heiss smiled. He could imagine the confusion and turmoil rippling through the Granorgite ranks over the signification of the noise. Sadly for them, they wouldn't even have the time to discover what it was meant for.

The barrels of black powder were still there, hidden to every eyes except his. When he focused his sight on the trails of Mana, as Isla had taught him so long ago, they gave a faint green glow. It had struck him, one day, that he could possibly use his Vanish spell on something other than himself. It had taken a lot of practise (and hours spent cursing and flinging various half-vanished objects on the walls), but he had finally developed a technique that worked. It was bothersome that some of his men had seen it at work, but hopefully enough, those few would count among the surely staggering number of casualties. _If not, well..._

Heiss rushed away from the barrels as soon as he had lit the fuse with a quick fire spell. As he took cover behind a jagged piece of rock, the ground shook and a terrible noise blasted through the air, nearly tearing apart Heiss' eardrums. His ears ringing, Heiss allowed himself one quick glance behind; flames and gravel were erupting upward, the shockwave pulverizing everything—be it man or stone—in its path. The first explosion had barely passed its course that another tore a chunk of the fortress walls. This one was further away, but Heiss still felt its heat blazing across his cheeks. Brick and mortar and bloody bits splattered the sand, leaving a trail of dust and red.

There were supposed to be two more explosions, but they never came. The people tending to the explosives might have been found out, perhaps. It didn't matter. The detonation Heiss had set off had destroyed a great part of the wall it targeted, and while the other had only slightly weakened the barricade, it had killed enough soldiers that it had served its purpose.

The clarion sounded again. Heiss drew his dagger. Almost unconsciously, his right hand came to rest on the large pouch hidden under his coat, where the White Chronicle was hidden. After a few seconds, he pulled his hand away. No, there was no need for pre-battle prayers. With a grin teasing his lips, he flashed out of sight again to fall behind the Alistellian army as Viola's people charged inside the Fortress, their swords thirsty for blood and revenge.

* * *

The battle came to an end as the day began to yield to one of those cool desert nights. Heiss had come out of the fighting with only a few scratches. He had been one of the lucky. The Granorgites had been mostly wiped out, while Viola's forces had suffered great losses. The Lieutenant General herself had sustained a wound to the side as she fought alongside her people. The woman was undeterred; she kept roving inside the fortress to give instructions to her subordinates, ignoring the team of worried healers that trailed after her. Viola gave absolutely no indication that she was in pain; was it pride or a strange attempt to sustain her people's morale? Heiss did not know.

Major Edwige had apparently died taking a blow meant for her lady. Heiss had been in the large room where they had lain most of their dead when Viola had gently placed her cape on the woman's body, kneeling to offer a prayer for her aide's soul. She had then swiftly risen to go back to her duties, her eyes now lit by a cold determination.

Heiss himself kept wandering through the fortress as well. Now, the corpses were being moved to another mess hall. He watched the process with blank eyes. The stenches of the dead and dying spurred him to keep his distances more often than not. There were familiar faces amongst the corpses; he was surprised to find they did not stir in him as much pity as such sights once did.

A young woman was draped over one body, her shoulders shuddering with sobs. Heiss recognized the dead boy. _Sage_. He thought the young man would stay away from the thick of the fight. After all, Heiss had placed him in the back with the other archers. _What must have possessed him to come close to the fighting?_ _  
_

"Salvia," Heiss addressed the young woman. For a brief moment, he wondered why he had spoken to her in the first place. He had nothing to offer to her but insincere sympathy. The girl raised reddened eyes to him.

"Chief," Salvia said, her voice as hollow as her gaze. "You're still alive." She looked at the gashes and the dried blood on his coat and said nothing else.

"I am sorry about your brother."

"Oh," Salvia cast her eyes downward again. Another sob escaped her lips. "One Granorgite swung his sword at me, and S-Sage just jumped—" Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she took one of Sage's pale, limp hands in her own. "That _i-idiot!_ He knew I've always been the better fighter _a-and yet_ — _!"_

Heiss looked the other way. It was a shame, truly. "He was a good soldier. A useful unit."

"What...?" Salvia's interjection was barely a whisper. "What did you...?"

"I have to go," Heiss interrupted her. He didn't want to deal with her distress any longer than needed. "I have other matters to attend to."

Salvia stared at him, blankly, a crease deepening between her brows. Heiss turned on his heel before she could begin to speak again.

* * *

The following month was as harrowing as the battle preparations had been. They needed to make repairs, treat the wounded, and arrange a working chain of command within the diminished ranks of Viola's troops. All the while, there would be the occasional, desperate attack from what remained of the Granorgite army. Lieutenant General Viola had assured Heiss that her superiors were soon going to send reinforcements. It was perhaps the only hope her soldiers hung onto as their resources and morale started to plummet.

A number of mercenaries, including some of Heiss' company, had officially became part of the Alistellian military. Heiss was secretly pleased that the Lieutenant General was so desperate for new blades; it would make things easier for him. Nobody would question the skills and allegiance of the certain few whom he had nudged into joining the Alistellian troops.

Heiss himself would wait. He would need to infiltrate the Alistellian military one day, but until the right moment, he could bid his time.

The right day, however, came sooner than he had expected.

Through the night, they had managed to repel a group of persistent Granorgite marauders, suffering heavier losses than usual. When morning broke through, word had gotten out from the guards stationed at the watchtowers that riders had been seen coming from the south. Heiss had climbed up to the barricade, making his way through a group of weary soldiers scrambling over in confusion, when the three riders' flag finally came into view. It was not the silver dragon of Granorg as they all feared.

The riders were welcomed inside the Fortress with deafening shouts of joy. They were Alistellians scouts, who had been sent from the capital to bring Viola a message of great importance. The soldiers trailed after the three men as they went to meet with the Lieutenant General, and there was a great burst of collective laughter when some offered to pay the messengers a few drinks afterwards. The soldiers' boisterous joy only grew when the truth of the three men's visit finally got out.

The High General was marching toward the Fortress, escorted by thousands of the country's finest soldiers.

For the first time in several weeks, there were songs and bawdy jokes and bottles to uncork. Heiss watched the celebrations for a few moments with one raised brow (he had never understood the appeal of such things; even as a young man, such activities struck him as strange and boorish), before leaving to meet with the Lieutenant General in her war room.

The High General and his followers entered the Fortress near midday, to great fanfare (or so Heiss had heard). Heiss himself had been observing his fellow mercenary captains as they spoke in hushed tones when the great stone doors burst open. Two soldiers in pristine armours stepped in and saluted the Lieutenant General, who responded with a brief nod. The soldiers moved by each side of the door and announced the name and rank of Viola's visitor in booming voices.

Heiss stayed hidden in his corner as the tall figure in silver armour and violet robes darkened the doorframe, before making his way toward Lieutenant General Viola. The lady knight dropped to one knee, one steel gauntlet draped over her heart.

"Rise, Lieutenant General," Hugo intoned in that grave voice of his. His traits were severe; his face might have been carved from granite itself.

Lieutenant General Viola got to her feet. "General, your arrival is timely. My men must think you a gift from the heavens. You have my deepest gratitude." She slightly bowed again.

Her words elicited no warmth from the man. "His Holiness feared for you and your people." Hugo's gaze then scoured through the room, his dark eyes filled with undisguised scorn. "You are all in a worse state than I was led to believe."

Viola showed no expression at his disdainful tone. "Our enemies were fierce. In the end, thanks to the bravery of my men and women, we prevailed." After giving a quick glance to Heiss and the other two captains, she added, "Of course, we wouldn't have made it this far without the help of the soldiers whose services you've bought, General."

Heiss watched General Hugo carefully. The man's lips curled into the briefest of smiles. _Oh, is it so easy to appeal to his noble ego?_ Heiss thought, amused.

"Your troops were still green, Lieutenant General. Luckily for you, I had the foresight to bring you some help."

Viola's face was stone. "We are forever in your debt, sir."

Hugo turned his gaze away from her. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant General. We will meet again after I have been shown my quarters." His eyes landed on Heiss and the two other captains.

"You," he demanded. "what are your names?"

"I'm Derrick," the tall young man replied, "leader of the Storm Eagles."

"Frances," the older woman said, eyes narrowing. "My people are the ones under the banner of the Bloody Hand."

Hugo's eyes finally came to rest on Heiss. The latter could not help but smile as he looked at the target of the snare he'd worked to lay down for the past few months. _Heh! And here I thought I would have to wait a little longer for this fly to find my web..._

"Greetings, General," Heiss said, giving the deepest of bows. "I've been waiting to meet you. My name is Heiss."

_I'm here to burn your life's work to the ground._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thanks my beta ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy and to you guys for reading!


	15. Chapter 13 - Historica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heiss had never quite believed he would find himself thinking back on his days as a near-prisoner of Castle Granorg so much.

Just like then, the people roaming Castle Alistel never paid him any mind. They seemed to know that he worked for the High General; in what capacity, they never cared to learn. He kept to the shadows and never talked unless spoken to. They must have believed him to be General Hugo's personal secretary or something of the sort. He never tried to persuade them otherwise.

Hugo himself did not want to bring much attention to him, either. The General was a man of considerable power, but that might was built on a foundation as fleeting and changing as the wind. The people respected him for now, but what would become of that worship if some less savoury things about the man came into light?

For this reason, Hugo had started to grow... _afraid_. Lieutenant General Viola had always been loved by the people, but after her triumphant return to the capital, two years ago, the Alistellians's fondness for their humble and pious Valkyrie had flourished to near religious reverence. Hugo tried to divert some of the glory back to himself, but to no avail. A small faction even attempted—not too subtly—to convince the rest of the country that Viola was the Prophet's one true successor. Hugo had been incensed... and since he could not harm a silver hair on Viola's head lest he lose the people's approval, he found the only thing he could do was to strangle the dissident voices before too much of their nonsense could even be heard.

Heiss had thus found himself with a lot of work in-between the assault on the Fortress and the present day.

Doing Hugo's dirty work was cumbersome, but Heiss endured. He had to maintain a fragile balance between fulfilling the man's demands and furthering his own secret interests. Heiss could not let the High General realize that he pursued his private agenda. Especially considering just what would become of the man if Heiss managed to fulfil his goals.

Hugo trusted him very little, but he never acted on his suspicions. There was only one time Heiss could remember the man asking him a more personal question. He had called Heiss to his office and, after the General had finished detailing another mission, Hugo had suddenly become very contemplative.

"Do you believe someday the people will be aware of the sacrifices I've made to lead them?" he had mused aloud, watching the courtyard of Castle Alistel from the window. This had prompted Heiss to raise one surprised eyebrow. He had approached Hugo, following the trail of the man's gaze over his shoulder. As always, a flurry of activities had animated the area below: soldiers marching in and out of the mess hall, servants transporting supplies, healers carrying the occasional wounded to the infirmary down in the first basement...

"Your name will be written in the history books, at the very least," Heiss said. "You are the Prophet's chosen successor."

Hugo's frown deepened. "The title is a heavier burden than most would think. My life now belongs to his people."

Heiss fought to keep his amusement from showing. "This is why I believe history shall remember you as a great man. Who praises the Imperial sorcerers, now? Who remembers their names? They got too proud, and were cast down from the collective memory in retaliation. All that remains now of their civilization are ruins and relics."

There was just the briefest flicker of pleasure in Hugo's eyes, before his face became stone again. _Ah, I might have laid it down a little thick there,_ Heiss thought.

"You are wrong on that count. They left the most persistent of legacies."

"Is that so?" Heiss replied, wondering what the man would say if he knew that a part of said legacy was standing right beside him. "It's true the Granorgites pride themselves on keeping that bloodline alive. I wonder if there is truly something unusual about their royal family, or if it is just some strange tale they feed to their subjects?"

General Hugo shook his head. "It is of no matter. What is crucial is that their very existence curses us to suffer from their ancestors's follies still to this day."

Heiss regarded the man, suddenly curious. Did he truly believe this, or was it instead a lie he used to cover up his sin of coveting the Granorgites' lands? Heiss suspected it was a little bit of both.

"What is it that you believe, Heiss?" Hugo turned to Heiss, his dark eyes prying and mistrustful.

"Oh, I believe the same, General. As long as King Victor is alive, peace will never come to this continent."

"Is that what you seek? Peace?"

Heiss hid another smile at the man's almost incredulous tone. His scepticism suddenly made Heiss recall the equally doubtful faces of his old subordinates—Daoud, Mira and the twins—when they had been having a similar conversation many years prior. "Yes. I am not as young as I once was. I only want to spend my golden years free from conflict and war."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed." This time, Heiss let a small grin show. "A peaceful continent, bound under the rule of a kind and just leader. That's all I want."

Hugo had turned his gaze away at this, but Heiss had still glimpsed the smile teasing the man's lips. He hadn't said, back then, that the ruler he had in mind was far from being the one Hugo must have imagined.

* * *

Heiss' web extended to almost every corner of the continent. Agents in Alistel helped him feel the pulse of the Alistellian people—he knew their wants, their needs, their weariness in the face of the war-torn world in which they lived. Spies in Cygnus kept him updated on the happenings of the desert realm, now a unified country under the banner of King Garland. And of course, deep inside Granorg were scattered several underlings who served as informers and sentinels, all of them ready to topple his brother's kingdom if he ever kindly asked.

Heiss was irritated, however, that he had no way of knowing what happened within the borders of Forgia and Celestia. That blind spot would have cost him dearly, if not for the quick wit of one of his subordinates.

The girl in question was rather tiny for one her age, with dark skin and grey eyes. Heiss met her at the same place every time, an abandoned storage space only accessible from the poorer ward of the Alistellian capital city. Cat, as she called herself, would always be perched on the same pile of boxes, feeding pigeons.

"Sir," was her only greetings, as always.

"Good evening, Cat," Heiss replied pleasantly. "Did you enjoy your hunt?"

The girl was silent for an instant. " _He_ found himself something new to chase," she said, biting down her lower lip.

Heiss didn't have to ask who _he_ was. He knew each and every one of his agents, had hand-picked them for both their abilities and their personal backgrounds. Some were lured to his side with the usual—money, power, the promise of a good bit of fun—but others had different demands. Cat, for her part, wanted something very specific—she only asked for the honour of separating Hugo's head from his body once Heiss would be finished with him. The man had caused her mother's death in one of his prior military campaigns, a botched attempt to invade the Sand Fortress if Heiss could recall correctly.

"Has he?" Heiss enquired.

"The Valkyrie acted under his nose," the girl said very rapidly. "She's meeting with someone he doesn't want her to meet."

"Interesting," Heiss passed a hand through his whiskers. "Go on."

"An ambassador. Someone from—" She motioned for him to move closer, and in a more hushed voice, she added, "—someone from Celestia."

Her words troubled Heiss, more than he cared to admit. "He's already sent someone to intercept the ambassador, hasn't he?"

Cat shook her head. "No. One of Viola's subordinates went to him, and that's it." Her gaze became very still. "I had a very nice chat with that soldier."

"Good work, Cat. I'm going to try and to keep this prize from falling into our good friend's clutches. Do you want to accompany me?"

She did not answer, only stared at him with those unnerving eyes of hers. Heiss chuckled under his breath. He really did not need to ask.

* * *

They set out the same night, leaving after preparing only a few provisions. Hugo would be quick to act, too, but he would send an entire unit—they would be slowed down by their numbers and the equipment they carried.

Heiss was used to moving swiftly without being seen, as was Cat. She had extracted the whereabouts of the ambassador from Viola's traitorous subordinate, giving them the means to catch up with the Satyros before he reached the meeting point he had agreed on with the Valkyrie. If they failed to find him before that, he would fall into the hands of Hugo's brigands. Heiss was not afraid, however. He had always played well ahead of Hugo. And a new node had appeared in the White Chronicle this very morning.

They spent most of the night crossing the northern part of Lazvil Hills, stopping only to catch a bit of sleep. When morning came, the air was crisp and pure. The capital city was just lengths away, but already the absence of the dreadful Thaumachines was noticeable. Heiss couldn't wait for the day where he could finally kiss the godforsaken country of Alistel goodbye. He missed both the peaceful greens of Granorg and the silence of the Cygnan wastelands.

They stayed along the main road for now. The only travellers they met were the usual fare—merchants and performers and peasants carrying their products to the capital. Heiss' senses were all in alert, his eyes and ears on a perpetual lookout for anything that was out of the ordinary. Finally, as they reached a secluded, forested area, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

It had been a trail of green—a trail of Mana. But alongside it, there was this tiny flickering of violet light. _Violet?_ Since Isla had taught him how to see the paths of magic hidden from normal sight, he had always associated Mana with the colour green. The idea of a violet-coloured trail of Mana left him unsettled. _Violet Mana? Where have I seen this before?_

Heiss wordlessly raised an arm to stop Cat in her tracks. Giving her a significant look, he leaped under the canopy, waiting to be out of her sight before casting his vanishing spell. He moved toward the faint aggregate of Mana pulsating through the trees, his feet making no sound as they stepped on the moist ground of the forest and the piles of dead leaves.

The quivering mass of Mana became brighter as Heiss found a clearing. Hidden behind a tree, Heiss observed a small tent erected not far from where he was, and a man sitting on a log, near the embers of a campfire. The man had long, black horns curling from his head. Heiss smiled, ready to make his way back to Cat, but then the Satyros' shoulders suddenly tensed, and he looked backward with a sharp, nervous turn of the head.

Heiss had only taken one slow step behind when there was a sudden movement up ahead. Gasping, Heiss scrambled backward; he barely had the time to grasp the handle of his dagger before the Satyros was upon him. The man gave a swift kick with one hooved foot. Heiss managed not to have his ribcage crushed under the force of the blow, but it still sent him flying. One second later, and he was flat on his back, wheezing, with a blade at his throat.

"P-peace," Heiss breathed, nearly choking on the word. The Satyros's silver hair was tumbling down from its knot and into his face. His features were as delicate as they were harsh.

"Who are you?" the Satyros said, unflinchingly. "How did you find me?"

"I... am not your enemy," Heiss responded. "Move... move your sword or my companion might attack you."

"Companion?" the Satyros repeated.

He had barely finished speaking when a shadow erupted from the thick of the woods. Cat had drawn her own dagger, and the tip of the blade was an inch away from the man's throat. The barest of surprises filtered through his face before an angry sort of resignation settled on his features.

"What do you want of me?" the Satyros said as he dropped his sword. It was a strange weapon, too, the blade being the same onyx hue as its hilt. Gazing upon the sword made Heiss uneasy. There was something about this blade, something that put him on edge, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was just yet.

"As I have already said," Heiss said, "I'm not your enemy. Actually, we are here to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Your meeting with the Lieutenant General has been compromised. The commander of the Alistellian military, High General Hugo, is looking for you."

As the Satyros man frowned in disbelief, Heiss ordered Cat to let him go.

"Fortunately enough, Cat here learned of this threat before it could come to pass. We should get out of here, in truth. I expect our pursuers are hot on our trails." Heiss went back to his feet, and grabbed the man's strange black-bladed sword to hand it back to him. Instantly, the touch sent a jolt of magical energy through his arm. Heiss froze, staring at the weapon in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, his brow slowly rising as an idea dawned on him. _Could this be...?_

"We should get moving, then," Cat's voice cut through his musings.

"Yes, yes, you are right," Heiss said, eyes still locked on the black sword. With much reluctance, he presented it to the Satyros ambassador. "I trust you won't slit our throats while our backs are turned? You are among friends here."

The Satyros' gaze hardened. "On my honour as a Satyros." His fingers curled around the hilt much more gently than Heiss would have expected. He regarded the blade with a certain sort of reverence.

"I am to join the Valkyrie a little farther from here," the Satyros said as he slid the blade back in its scabbard. Heiss shook his head.

"It's too risky. Our foes are not far behind. And while Hugo has caught the Lieutenant General in a compromising position, he only has the word of a known traitor to condemn her. But if he gets his hands on you—" Heiss jabbed a finger at the Satyros man, who frowned at the gesture, "—he could very well pretend that the Lieutenant General was conspiring with an agent from a foreign country."

"The Prophet himself has—"

"The Prophet has been recently confined to his bed, after a bout of dementia." As Cat let out a small hiss, Heiss continued. "It's not common knowledge, but it is true. Even if Viola told the higher-ups that the Prophet himself willed it, it would be difficult to hear it from his own lips. The man has a few weeks at most, really."

Heiss' words seemed to shake Cat's normally cool composure. Even the Satyros man appeared torn.

"Then, I must go back to Celestia until the dust settles and another occasion presents itself."

"Exactly," said Heiss. "We can serve as your escort until then."

The look of worry on the ambassador's face dissipated. He did not appear too taken with the idea. "Why should I trust you? I do not even know who you are."

"Let's keep it simple and just say neither of us are overly fond of General Hugo." Heiss became more somber, before adding, "I believe his intentions toward your country are not entirely peaceful. Since Alistel is not in a position where it can sustain a war on another front, I'd rather not let him get his hands on you."

"I see what you mean," the Satyros said. "Perhaps, then, should we get going. I will not have you risk your lives for nothing."

"Good." Heiss smiled. "Let's not tarry more than we already have. Lead the way, then."

* * *

The ambassador's name was Samra, Heiss soon learned. He was as silent of a companion as Cat was. They were well-suited together, both advancing in the thickening forest with covert movements filled with a catlike sense of grace.

When they set up camp later that night, Heiss noticed that Samra's eyes had rarely left him. As he took off to find some wood for the fire (partly to escape that maddening scrutiny), Heiss wondered if the ambassador possessed abilities similar to Isla's. He hoped the Satyros would keep Heiss' condition under lid if it was the case. The last thing he needed was for one of his subordinates to know delicate information about his true self.

Unfortunately, for this reason Heiss found himself unable to ask more about the Satyros's peculiar blade. He would have to keep his curiosity to himself for the time being.

As the night settled in, Heiss was the first to keep watch. The hours went by, the soft crackling of the fire almost lulling Heiss into a doze. The moment when he and Samra would exchange places as they previously convened couldn't come fast enough; when finally, to Heiss' relief, the three-hour mark had passed, he unceremoniously pulled the Satyros from his slumber. The ambassador went to his duties without a protest or a grumble.

Heiss fell asleep the moment his head touched the log he used as a pillow.

Soon, there was only darkness. The abyss was both comforting and frightening; as long as he could not see, he felt as nothing could harm him. The thought had barely passed through his mind that he scolded himself. _What a childish notion!_ Tentatively, he opened his eyes, then recoiled for a moment, unused to the suddenly harsh light. Green and violet fires flared in the dark. Eyes still burning, he took one step forward, a bit of gravel crunching under his boot.

Two pairs of arms emerged from the darkness and snaked around him. He yelped, both out of shock and pain, as the tip of their mailed gloves dug into the thin fabric of his shirt. Blood began to darken the pale fabric.

A figure was advancing, a violet object bouncing off his chest. It was some sort of jewel dangling from a silver chain. _The Etherion..._

Victor raised his dagger, and Heinrich screamed and screamed _and_ —

"—ake up! Sir! _Sir!_ "

Heiss' eyes flared open. He was panting and covered in sweat. Cat and Samra were peering down at him.

"You were thrashing in your sleep," Samra said, sounding worried for once. "You were screaming."

"I see," Heiss said. He gulped down. "It's alright. It was only a silly nightmare." His gaze came to find the sword hanging from Samra's hip.

It suddenly struck him. Yes, there was no doubt. He'd always felt the same strange sensation whenever he had laid eyes on one of his family's most prized possessions. _The Etherion._ The jewel of pure Mana that bore witness of the past grandeur of the Empire. _And the thing that kept my brother's soul from being ripped out of his body as he did the same to me._

Heiss' hand curled into a fist at the memory. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

They left camp after first light without uttering a word. The air here was thick and heavy, the temperature warmer than what he was used to in Alistel. But Heiss knew they hadn't left Alistellian borders yet. And now that the date of the meeting had come and gone, Heiss was certain Hugo's men would know something was amiss. They would certainly head to the Celestian frontiers, determined to find the ambassador before he was safely within the Satyros capital, reputedly impossible to find.

They were in a middle of another uneventful day when Heiss suddenly heard a distant sound. Samra and Cat became very still, their hands dropping to their weapons. Heiss held his breath, trying to discern what the noise was. The realization made him inhale sharply.

"Voices," Heiss whispered. _Damn! Have they already gained so much on us?_

He turned to look at Cat and Samra. They had made sure to hide their tracks, but then— _His feet! Samra's hooved feet!_ Of course, one forgotten footprint and Hugo's soldiers could easily find where they were.

Heiss skirted closer to the other two. He could not cover them both with his Vanish skill if they had to run, especially in such terrain. The best course of action would be to avoid attention completely rather than flee.

With a scowl, he grasped both of their sleeves. They looked at him with a certain surprise, Samra even opening his mouth in an attempt to protest, but Heiss mouthed at him to keep quiet. The Satyros drew his lips in a line, but otherwise stayed silent.

They were all under the cover of Heiss' spell when the sounds of footsteps came to be heard.

"I was sure I'd seen something moving here," one of the voices said. Heiss squinted his eyes to see to whom it belonged; in the sea of green, there was a figure wearing the violet of the Alistellian infantry making his way toward them, his movements burdened by his armour. Heiss craned his neck to count the others who accompanied him. For now, there appeared to be six soldiers in total. Less than he would have expected. _Perhaps they split up to cover more ground,_ he speculated.

"Are you sure?" another soldier countered.

"Could have been a deer, you know."

"It would have been a freaking large deer, then," the first soldier grumbled.

"Shut it," a new voice hissed. Heiss spotted a yellowish blur. Their commanding officer, Heiss realized. "Just keep looking."

They were closer now, so close Heiss and the others would have been exposed if not for the Vanish spell. He held his breath.

"There's nothing here," one soldier complained.

"I said ' _shut it_ ' _!_ " The commanding officer appeared ready to tear off the man's head. "I saw movement too. And I feel like I'm being..." his voice trailed off, lost in the sounds of the woods.

Samra and Cat moved to grip their weapons. _They can't see us, but they still can hear_ , Heiss thought, annoyed. The flow of Mana inside him was slowing down _._ The Vanish spell was more efficient when being used in several short consecutive bursts, and Heiss wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.

Cat's eyes glared daggers as the men came closer. She was raring for a fight. Samra, for his part, was taut as a bowstring. _Three against six... not impossible odds, but not exactly in our favour either._

One soldier advanced dangerously close. He removed his visor, probably in an attempt to see better. His eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth, ready to speak—

He never had the time. One of Cat's knifes plunged into his eye, and he fell down, screaming.

Everything that happened afterwards was pure chaos. Both Cat and Samra were nimbler than the soldiers in their heavy armours. Heiss allowed himself one glance at the Satyros as the latter drew his sword. The blade itself seemed to come alive as it swept from one opponent to the other, parrying one blow here, finding weak spots there, the movements as flowing as the wind.

Heiss could not spare another moment to watch the Satyros fight. He gripped his dagger, his other hand flaring with magical energy. His target—the panicking, yellow-clad officer—devoted all of his attention to commanding his men. He never saw the man cloaked in black rushing toward him.

The charge of magical lightning fried the Alistellian officer through his armour. As the man collapsed, a disgusting foam peppered with blood forming at his lips, Heiss turned on his heel, ready to leap toward another victim. He had never been as good with lightning spells as he was with fire, but this particular element worked _so_ well on armoured targets.

The fight was over before it could even truly begin. The last soldier crumbled, thrashing, as the last bits of magical energy surged through his body. Heiss watched him as he died, then moved his gaze to where Cat and Samra had been fighting moments prior.

Bodies were littered around them. Heiss quietly walked to where Samra had kneeled, holding Cat's head in his lap. Dark blood was steadily ebbing out from a cut at her throat. She fought to breathe, but with each exhale only came more red. Her eyes darted everywhere; they were filled with terror. And _hate_. In the past, Heiss would have been horrified to see such hatred in someone still so young, but now the thought left him cold.

"Shh, child," Samra said, soothingly. "Look at me." Her frightened grey eyes stopping moving, finally finding the Satyros' own gaze. "Yes, this is it. Look at me, child. Don't be afraid. I am here."

Her brows came together in a last frown. Her breathing was slowing down. Finally, Cat's shudders stopped, and her gaze stilled.

Samra passed a hand over her face to close her eyes. His shoulders seemed to be burdened with an invisible weight.

"I hope her soul will find her way home," he murmured.

"Why would she not?" Heiss asked. He was surprised at the lack of emotion in his voice.

The Satyros sighed. "She clearly has unfinished business in this world. Souls filled with regret... they stay bound to this world, unable to move on. As do souls filled with rage." He wiped a bit of blood from her cheek. Her features were only starting to soften.

"I'd say this situation would call for the assistance of one of your famous Shamans, then."

The Satyros sharply turned his face to him. "You know of Shamans? Where would you have heard of such things?"

Heiss waved a dismissive hand. "This might be a story for another time. For now, we should get going."

Samra did not budge an inch. "We must bury the dead first."

"We do not have the time to—"

"I shan't move until this task is done," the Satyros said stubbornly. "It's the least we can do to provide some respite for their suffering souls."

Heiss' jaw tightened, but he knew there was nothing he could do to persuade Samra to leave them be. "Well, at least we should move the corpses so they won't be found," he admitted.

"Let's find a place where they will have some sunlight," the Satyros said. "Personally, I would hate for my earthly vessel to spend its final rest imprisoned in the darkness."

Heiss said nothing. As they began to move the bodies to a clearing not far away, he began to hope he had done the right thing the moment he decided to save Samra from Hugo's grasp. This mission was starting to be more troublesome than he would have preferred.

* * *

The following days were spent in uncomfortable near-silence.

The Satyros was clearly divided between a growing curiosity and a quickly dwindling sense of trust. Heiss, for his part, was contemplating whether or not to tell him the truth. _Or a least_ _my_ _version of the facts._ His plan to protect the Satyros ambassador partly hinged on what Isla had told him so long ago. _Would the Celestians really want to help us?_ he wondered. _Would they even have the_ _means_ _to do something?_ Isla might have lied to him. A disturbing number of people had played Heiss like a puppet, laughing behind his back as they pulled his strings. _The next time it will happen, I swear I will—_

"We are out of water," a voice took Heiss out of his thoughts. Samra was looking at him, holding in his hands the water canteen they shared. "We should replenish it. We can take a break to eat as well."

Heiss agreed with a brief nod, his mind still elsewhere. Some hours later, they found the river that traversed the entire area and drank their fill. As they sat, eating the few salty crackers they had left, Samra looked at Heiss, his pale eyes silently enquiring.

"You still wonder about my sword, don't you?" the Satyros said.

Heiss shrugged, feigning indifference. "I know it was not made by your people, at least. I do have my theory as to where it might have come from."

"I would be interested to hear your ideas. Not many humans seem to know my people as much as you do."

Heiss steepled his hands together. "I suspect the blade is Imperial-made. How and why such a weapon would find itself in the hands of a Satyros, and not a Granorgite for example... _that_ I don't know."

Samra comfirmed Heiss' suspicions with a wry grin. "Her name is Historica. It was a gift from the Imperial Family to my people. She has some mysterious properties, ones that we cannot even begin to understand."

"Her?"

"It is..." Samra shook his head. "It is difficult to understand. One can't say a blade is alive, yet sometimes it feels to me as if she has life of her own."

Heiss tugged on his whiskers, deep in thought. "It uses the power of Flux, doesn't it?" _Perhaps the Imperial sorcerers imprisoned a soul inside the blade itself using the power of Flux? As they did with Teo and Lippti. As my brother did with me._

"Yes," replied the Satyros. "I'm surprised you even know the existence of this power."

 _So, a sword that can manipulate souls and Mana? Interesting._ "Oh, I am no expert. In my line of work, one has to know as many things as possible. It can turn the tide when you get stuck in a matter of life and death."

"You also know about our Shamans."

"This," Heiss said, "is because I happened to meet one in my years of travel."

Heiss was amused to see the Satyros' cool façade faltering for a bit.

"How could this be?" Samra said, his voice soft and breathy. "The little lady has never set foot outside of..." He stopped in the middle of his sentence, his expression changing. He stared at Heiss again, eyes narrowing in shock.

"The Shaman I met was named Isla," Heiss clarified.

"Was?" There was a touch of apprehension in Samra's tone.

"Oh, do not worry, I believe she must be fine." _She wasn't last time I saw her, but..._ "She lives in Skalla, if I remember right."

"Skalla," Samra repeated, almost disbelieving. "She is in Skalla."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"Everyone knows the Lady Isla." A little laugh escaped his lips. "After we've reached Celestia, we must head for Skalla. You could come as well, to show me where you believe she lives. The Lady Isla...! After so many years, to have finally found her!"

Heiss' smile turned ugly. "You have to excuse me," he said, "but perhaps you have forgotten I also have my own duties to attend to."

The Satyros' cheeks coloured a little. "I see. Please forgive my presumptuous attitude. And forgive me for forcing you to go to such lengths to protect me. I will be eternally grateful to you." He went to his feet and bowed then, deeply. The sight of it pleased Heiss, oddly enough.

 _A promise from a man honour-bound to help me._ It wasn't much, but it was a start. _I'm getting there, Ernst. Just so you wait._ He could already see the fruits of his efforts unfurling in front of his eyes. The images soothed his rattled nerves as he went to sleep afterwards.

* * *

More than a week after Heiss' departure from the capital, they finally reached the Alistellian borders. They were forced to slip through a small, permanent encampment Hugo had built next to the Celestians's proverbial doorstep before leaving the country for good. The General pretended he had stationed these soldiers here to protect the citizens from raiders and other cutthroats, but nobody was fooled. Hugo wanted his war with Celestia, and by the grace of God, he was going to use everything in his power to have it.

The sight of the Alistellian encampment drained the blood from Samra's face. It had grown since he had left Celestia, Heiss understood.

"I will post some of my men near the border to keep in contact," Heiss assured him as came the time to part ways. "If you ever feel the need to know what is happening inside of Alistel, I could help." _In exchange for your cooperation, of course,_ Heiss added in his mind.

"I need to meet the Lieutenant General," Samra interrupted him. "I _must_."

Heiss stared at him, almost dumbfounded. "Why? Why would you put yourself through such trouble again?"

"There is something very important I must tell the leaders of your country. Those Thaumachines of yours..."

Heiss had begun to move away, but Samra's words made him stop in his tracks. "Thaumachines?" he repeated, startled. "What do they have to do with anything?"

"Do you know how they work?" the Satyros said. "They run on Mana, the energy that fuels all magic." He stepped closer to Heiss, eyes boring into his. "It is also the essence of life itself. Your Thaumatech research will put the entire continent in great danger if it is not stopped."

Heiss' mouth went dry. Teo had said something of the sort some years past, hadn't he? _In a few decades, they might drain Mana as efficiently as the machines of the Old Empire did_ , he remembered the boy telling him. _And then the world will be destroyed at a much quicker pace._

"Luckily, they have no way of manipulating the power of Flux. If they did..."

"If they did, then what would happen?"

"They could achieve the same level of technology the Old Empire had," Samra answered. "It would put all of our lives in jeopardy. You humans do not know this, however. It is why I must speak to one of your leaders before it all comes to pass."

"I see," Heiss said, troubled. Anger bubbled in his guts at this revelation, but he tried to cool it down. It would do him no good to let his fury explode in front of Samra. "I will stay vigilant. If an occasion arises, I will try to contact you."

The Satyros bowed once more. "Thank you. You are doing a great service to my people—no, you are serving the entire continent itself."

Rage flared within Heiss again. _I don't care! Why do these things always fall into my lap?_ He still managed a frigid smile. "You are too kind. I'm just doing my job."

"I hope God smiles upon your endeavours," was Samra's response. And with one last tilt of the head as a salute, the Satyros stepped out of the last bits of Alistellian lands, heading toward the safe haven inside the Celestian forests.

* * *

It took Heiss another week to make it back to the capital. He would have been quicker, but fatigue weighed down his every muscle, making each step a hardship as daunting as climbing an entire mountain.

His mind mulled over the circumstances of his life. Thaumachines. The corruption of Alistel's brightest and most powerful. The reins of Granorg resting in the hands of his incompetent brother. The war, the suffering of the refugees, the squabbling of the humans and the Beastkind. That godforsaken Mana breach in the middle of the continent. With each passing day, Heiss had become a little more convinced that the world was determined to drain every last drop of hope he still had left in his body. More and more, he was sure it would not be sated until he was nothing but a broken husk incapable of raising a hand to protect himself and the people he had sworn to defend.

After passing the city's great metal gates, Heiss made his way through the first and poorest ward, heading for one of his old haunts. The taverm was frequented by all sort of lowlifes; it was also a place where Heiss happened to meet several of his best informers on a regular basis.

One of his men was sitting to the back of the lounge, slurping on a bowl of stew. Heiss wordlessly slid in the seat in front of him, making the man nearly choke on his mouthful.

"Boss! Where'd you come from?"

"The door, as usual," Heiss said dryly. "I have been away for far too long. I was starting to get homesick." He flipped a coin from his pocket; the man caught it with expert hands.

"Not much to say here," the informant said. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. "There was a bit of a scuffle with some war veterans asking for more money to compensate for their injuries. They didn't even manage to take it to the streets, heh. The army's rounded them out, and they're still thinking about what to do with them."

"Hmm." Heiss' fingers drummed on the table. "Go on."

"The prophet's still stuck to bed, or so they say. Bet you three silvers he'll never leave it again."

"That line of thought will get you in trouble," Heiss said with a smile that had no friendliness whatsoever. "I thought you valued your head more than this."

The man gave a nervous cough. "Oh, yeah, erm—well there's some news about Granorg, too. Pretty important stuff."

Heiss, whose thoughts had started to wander, abruptly felt his mind being dragged down to earth. "Granorg? What is happening in Granorg?" He was suddenly cold, so dreadfully cold.

"Haven't you heard?" the man said, in a voice that was so dispassionate, so nonchalant one could have believed the following words to be a lie. "The prince of Granorg is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeah, so we are at *that* point of the story. Next, Heiss is gonna find out the truth about magical girls. It ain't gonna be pretty.
> 
> And as always, thanks to my beta ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy and to you guys for reading!


	16. Chapter 14 - That Which is Hidden Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heiss was greeted by an unfamiliar silence as he landed on the grey slate platform in front of Teo and Lippti. The twins' distress hung heavily in the air, but it passed unnoticed by Heiss' normally keen ears and eyes. His mind was still trapped in that inn in Alistel, repeating on loop what his informant had told him.

 _The prince of Granorg is dead._ Heiss' mouth was parched dry, his throat burning as it did back in those cruel moments when he had been trying to escape the wastelands of Cygnus with the children, ages ago. _The king had him executed_. His eyes could not focus properly; in front of him were the stone columns and fiery sky of Historia, but he could not see them. He was elsewhere. _He was proclaimed a traitor to the realm._

"Heinrich?" came a soft voice. It wasn't quite enough to snap him out of his torpor. "Heinrich, there is something you must know..."

"I have to go back," were the few raspy sounds that left his lips. His legs were poised to climb the staircase that led out of Historia. "I have to go. I have to save him."

"Heinrich!" Teo cried out. The sound of his voice rooted Heiss' feet to the ground. Teo never raised his voice. Teo never was _afraid_.

 _"What is going on?"_ Heiss shouted, voice strangling in his throat. "I have to go back. Ernst was—Ernst was killed! I have to save him!" His words were met by a pair of pale, haunted faces. "Why are you looking at me like that? What are you hiding?" He clutched the White Chronicle to his heart, his knuckles going white.

"You _can't_ ," Lippti began, before she turned her face away. The rest of her response came in a murmur. "Oh, Heinrich, we are sorry."

"Sorry? Why would you be _sorry?"_

"You can't stop that event from happening," Teo said. Heiss' stomach twisted into knots. "Your brother has..." He sighed, deeply. He now appeared to be nothing more but a contrite child. "Your brother has used Ernst as a Sacrifice in the Ritual."

And once more Heiss felt as if the cogs of world had stopped turning. For an eternity, he looked at the twins, a bitter chill traversing his entire body. The coldness burrowned beneath his skin and twisted itself around his insides, the force of it sapping every thought, every sensation from his being.

"He," he whispered, "he couldn't... that's not _possible_. Victor couldn't have completed the Ritual. Not without..." His hands tightened around the White Chronicle again.

"Your brother could not care less," Teo said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Heiss shook his head. "No, no, that can't be possible. _Eruca_ was supposed to be—"

"Your brother killed two birds with one stone," Lippti said. She appeared as disgusted as her brother. "Your nephew displeased the king. It was a way to punish the boy's misdeeds as well as uphold his duties as Caster."

The White Chronicle fell to the ground with a resounding thud. Heiss seized his face with shaking hands. "No, no, no, _no!_ This shouldn't have happened! This wasn't what I wanted! E-Ernst should have never gone through this! I meant for him to—!"

He saw in his mind's eye the boy rising above the throne, the crystal crown of his father perched atop his golden head. Ernst would then cross the distance between them and extend a hand to Heiss, his blue-green eyes creasing in a grin. _Welcome home, Uncle. Thank you for everything._ Behind him, Eruca would be smiling through her tears. Heiss would grab Ernst's hand tightly, and his own eyes would well up. Finally, he would take his rightful place alongside them. _Yes, I am home, my boy. Home to stay._

The dream shattered into a thousand pieces.

"I have to go back," Heiss said once more, the words now having a maddened quality to them, "I have to stop this. I have to stop this from happening."

"Oh, Heinrich," Lippti said. "That's what we have been meaning to tell you. You _can't_."

"I can't...?" Heiss repeated, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

"Your niece has already shared half of her soul to save her brother." Teo, for once, seemed as gentle as his sister. "Your brother has used the Black Chronicle to sever your nephew's soul from his body. It was sealed away from your world—sealed _here_ , in the depths of Historia."

"If... if I go _back..._ "

"Your nephew's body would crumble, lifeless, without the half-soul graciously given by his sister. Historia stands outside of every realm of possibilities. Things within Historia exist in every world that will and will not be. Ernst's soul will stay trapped here in all realities that you will create."

Heiss dropped to his knees. "I don't believe you." He suppressed a sob, instead focusing all of the energy he had left to glare at the children—no, at these two despicable, child-shaped _things_. "I don't believe you."

The twins exchanged a long look.

"We know," Lippti said simply. "We will show you instead. Things we have kept from you. Things that should never have been hidden." With a swish of her robes, she had disappeared alongside her brother. Wordlessly, Heiss rose to his feet to follow their lead.

* * *

It was difficult to tell how long he had been chasing the twins across the maze that was Historia.

The beautiful dusk sky had now yielded to the starry void Heiss had seen all those years ago, when he had first awakened to the White Chronicle's powers. He paid no mind to the changing scenery; he was too focused on the orange and violet blurs flickering ahead of him. Heiss would not allow himself to lose sight of them, even though with each new step an invisible hand seemed to constrict his heart a little more.

They finally arrived to a long, large pathway. The stone under his feet seemed more worn down than anything else he had seen in Historia, and some parts of the edges were jagged and broken. Was this area older than the rest of this strange dimension? It was hard to tell, as the lighting was dimmer here; a number of stars had apparently gone out. As always, a few stone staircases and solitary platforms wandered the emptiness... still, Heiss noticed that there was fewer of them, and they glided farther and father away as he went forward. The pathway seemed to have no end. All he could see up front was a deep, encroaching darkness.

"Why did you bring me here?" said Heiss. "What is this place?"

As his voice resounded in the deepness of Historia, the twins reappeared. Lippti sat on a wandering staircase to his right, hands holding her chin, while Teo stood on a platform to his left.

"This is the deepest part of Historia," Lippti said. "This is where your soul resides."

"My _soul?"_ The unsure words had barely left Heiss' mouth when another voice—one that he did not know—resounded through the empty air. Heiss whirled on his feet the find the source of the sound. Before him were the strangest of sights: two indistinct forms, unclear as fog but still recognizable as a pair of human beings.

 _"And Mother just laughed at me!"_ the smaller shade said. Heiss looked on, incredulous, as its traits became clearer, ever so slightly: it was a child, or rather, the ghostly apparition of a child. The other phantom—a man whose features stayed blurred as though Heiss was looking at him through a misty window—chuckled.

_"You know she wasn't laughing at you, Princess. She laughed because she loves you very much, and you make her happy."_

They exchanged a few other words that were lost to Heiss' ears. He approached the two ghosts, raising a tentative hand to touch them.

 _"What about you, Uncle?"_ the girl said, bashfully. _"Do you love me too?"_

 _"Yes, child. I love you very much."_ His response sent the child into girlish giggles that continued to ripple through the empty air of Historia well after they had both disappeared. Heiss stared at the spot where they had been conversing only seconds prior, confused and somehow frightened.

"What on earth was that?" he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"This is the place where the souls of every Sacrifice have been sealed while they travelled through the different iterations of the world," Teo said.

"Some of the feelings they have experienced were left behind, even though their souls have already passed on," Lippti continued. "An imprint, if you will, of who they once were."

Heiss tried to respond to her words, but his reply died in his throat. Another soft light flared next to him. This time, it was two men, older than Heiss was now. One dropped to his knees, sobbing.

 _"I'm sorry, brother!"_ the phantom cried. His voice was so familiar it pierced through Heiss' heart. Who was that man? Why couldn't he remember him? _"I don't want to do this. I don't want to kill you!"_

The other ghostly man helped his brother to his feet. _"It will be alright, Francis. I had a long, fulfilling life. Please watch over the children for me, especially sweet Sophie and her little one."_

The first brother was still sobbing when they both faded out of sight. Immediately afterwards, four other shades fluttered to life. Three girls were whispering among themselves while another child trailed after them, looking miserable. The faces of two of the girls were an ugly blur of red and pink, but the third's features were as clear as day. She resembled Eruca, but her eyes were a beautiful shade of blue-green.

 _"Ugh, he's still following us,"_ one of the girls said. Heiss followed the direction of her gaze and looked at the boy creeping up behind them. His traits were recognizable as well: he had puffy eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and a head full of messy brown hair. Heiss' mouth dangled open as he realized just who he happened to be.

 _"Can you go anywhere else?"_ another girl said. _"We're busy here."_

The little boy huffed. _"I'm not following you because I want to, stupid. Mother wanted me to attend this dumb party."_ He gave a sniff, and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat.

_"Eww, don't do that, it's gross!"_

_"Oh, why would Her Majesty let him here? He's going to get all of us sick!"_

In contrast to her friends, the girl with the blue-green eyes only hid her mouth with her hand. Perhaps she meant to hide her embarrassment—or was it amusement? _"Oh, Harry, what are we going to do with you?"_ She went to the boy and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. He seemed to recoil a bit at the touch, but the girl's kindness still forced a smile out of him.

"This—" Heiss began, motioning over to where the boy and the girl were slowing vanishing from view, "Was that—?" He turned to Teo for confirmation, but the boy only tilted his head.

"This is not important, right now. What we seek is only a bit further."

Heiss straightened himself. He was suddenly very conscious of how unsure he had sounded, like some fearful youth instead of the older man he really was now. _Like Heinrich instead of Heiss._ His gaze hardened. No, he wouldn't give the twins any additional reason to scorn him any more than they did now.

Heiss continued to advance, ignoring the shades that appeared along the way. Children ran and danced and squabbled together. Men and women of varying ages came and went; their voices mingled with the laughter of the children in a lively yet distressing chaos of sounds. Others grieved and raged, and their emotions mirrored the state of Heiss' heart so well he spared them more of his attention. Disillusions and regrets and broken hopes—was it all that had been left of the people who had fulfilled this task before him?

Heiss came to a stop. In his path, two green lights lingered. The one with the faintest glow immediately went floating to him. A warmth dispersed itself into his being as the green light hovered about him. He finally recognized the feeling. _This... this is my soul._ The contact was as comforting as it was agonizing. _It's been so long..._

Heiss' gaze settled on the other green light. _Then, this one must be—_

"You understand, now, do you?" came Teo's voice.

Heiss drew a breath in a hiss. "He's trapped here. Like me. He's like me." _A walking corpse. A perversion of life created by the foulest of sorcery._ "Why? Haven't I fought enough to ensure they wouldn't have to go through this? Why, why, _why?!_ "

The green light—Ernst's _soul_ —fluttered away at his outburst, but Heiss did not notice.

"He wanted to find another way. Just a little more time, and I would have—" The air was sapped out of Heiss' lungs as a hateful possibility crept up on him. "You," he began, looking madly from one twin to another, "there was no way you could stop this, couldn't you?"

"The likelihood of that event was too faint for us to consider," Teo replied, his voice cool and collected. "We were wrong to overlook that possibility."

Heiss jabbed an accusing finger toward him. "No," he said, "you're lying. You always know what the future holds. You knew it would happen. You _let_ it happen."

"We wouldn't, Heinrich," Lippti said. There was something in her tone Heiss could not decipher.

"You're lying," he replied through grit teeth. "I wouldn't do as you ask, so you had to find another. Someone more suited to your needs."

"That's ludicrous, Heiss."

"All these years, I believed you would help me. I believed you would do everything in your power to help the people of my family. And yet— _and yet_ — _!_ "

More phantoms danced into view. A woman with sharp features and a shrill voice was berating a small boy whose stubborn gaze only left the ground when she brought down her hand to slap him. The child then turned startled eyes to her, a trickle of blood coming out of where the frame of his glasses had broken his skin. The same boy, but older, kept looking at a black-haired man clad in regal robes, his red gaze glassy and forlorn. The man walked away, deep in conversation with some other formless shades, never seeing the sullen child behind him. A teenager—blond-haired and thin like death itself—shouted at his father as the man raised a pistol. There was an explosion of red at his chest, and the youth fell silent.

"I believed you would protect me!" Heiss looked at his hands, still scarred red and raw by his burn wound even after all these years. He remembered days spent in agony after one too many near-death experiences, he recalled months' worth of nightmares depicting his worst fears come alive. "You let it happen to us! All these years, I was too blind... too blind to see that you never truly meant to help us!"

"You could not be more mistaken," Teo said, but his voice was soon drowned by a low, booming sound. He whipped his head to look toward the end of the pathway. The rumble grew stronger with each passing second. Teo turned sharply to face his sister.

"Teo," Lippti said, "we have to get Heinrich out of here!"

"I know," was the boy's only response.

Heiss stared at him. "Is this another of your tricks?" he said, burying his fright and confusion under a layer of anger. "What game are you playing?"

"There is no time to explain!" Lippti cried out. The noise was getting louder and closer. Heiss clutched at his chest. He felt the booming sound reverberating in his very bones. Heiss glanced upward, and realized with a start that the stars were blinking out of sight, one by one. The sight struck him numb.

"Heiss! You have to move!"

Teo's shout was quickly followed by a loud crash, and then by a sound that raised the hair on Heiss' arms. Directly in front of him, the pathway was being ground down to dust, the debris spiralling slowly at first before gaining more and more momentum _._ The great darkness itself seemed to creep closer, and Heiss could not see what monstrosity must have been hidden inside. Great chunks of stone were torn off the edges as the blackness grew, and another crash ripped through the emptiness as two platforms above Heiss' head collided into one another. And along with the _doom-boom_ that continued to echo in his ribcage, the screams and cries of anguish of the past Sacrifices continued to scrape at his ears.

The ground beneath his feet began to shake.

"W-What is _happening?!_ " Heiss' voice could barely be heard over the clamour, even though he was screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a terrifying crack, and his gaze snapped downward. The floor was starting to fissure under him.

"We will contain it! Just run, Heinrich!" Teo shouted. There was a flash, and the boy disappeared. His sister took the time to cry out something to Heiss before doing the same.

Near Heiss, the two green lights—his soul and Ernst's—were quivering. He spared them one last look, before he sprung from his spot. He managed to run for a pathetic few lengths before crashing into the ground as the floor under him suddenly gave way. The fall crushed the air out of his lungs, and with mounting dread he noticed that he was being slowly, slowly pulled by an invisible force behind him. Panting, he grabbed a piece of stone that was coming loose as the pathway began to tear itself apart. Around him the phantoms of the past Sacrifices's memories became more agitated. Some of them tumbled down into the black void, and they were absorbed by the growing darkness without giving so much a sign that they noticed what was happening. Others turned into twisted, dark shapes that barely resembled human beings; their laughter and screams grew in intensity, and in madness. The two souls, in contrast, flew from the gaping maw, disappearing out of Heiss' sight.

Behind him, the platforms and staircases continued to slam into one another, rock grinding against rock in an infernal cacophony. They all came together in a grotesque mismatch of steps and stone and twisted metal. The sight of it burned into Heiss' mind as he stared at this abomination, helpless.

Heiss extended an arm to hoist himself higher, digging his heels into the looser slabs of stone under him. He managed to drag himself to a part of the pathway that was still slightly intact, and began to crawl. His fingernails scraped across the rock, painfully, but he did not allow himself to stop. Every fibre of his being was on fire. His muscles burned and screamed for sweet mercy. His aching bones seemed poised to snap at any moment from under the sheer pressure. And without the stars to guide him even his vision threatened to fail him. The colours were fading from the world. He could now only see the pale outlines of his hands on the stone and the darker lines crisscrossing the white skin—the rivulets of blood escaping from his poor, mangled fingers.

Heiss realized with dimming awareness that he would not hold for much longer. The pain was starting to be too much. Heiss only had the time to utter one last gasp before his hands slipped from the rock. His mind spiralled into oblivion to the sounds of the twins' screams.

* * *

"Heinrich?"

_I'm dead. I must be._

"Heinrich, can you hear us?"

_I wasn't supposed to die. You were supposed to protect me._

"You are safe, now. The danger has passed."

 _Has it?_ Slowly, thoughts were beginning to form in his brain. The burning had returned, and along with it a feeling his hazy mind could barely understand—a fiery _something_ that was rising from his gut and that threatened to scorch everything in its path. _I wasn't supposed to die that way._ The flame within him quivered at this thought,

"Heinrich, open your eyes. It's gone. Everything is safe, now."

Heiss' eyes flared open. The world was painted with soft pink and orange hues and disharmonious shades of grey. _I'm... I'm not dead?_ It was a slight relief, but it did nothing to abate the burning. _I'm not dead._

His sight became clearer. Stairs and platforms of stone. A twilit sky with no end or horizon. Yes, that view was familiar. He was back in front of the colossal doorway that led back to the real world.

With slow, shaky movements, Heiss sat up. His entire being was made of pure pain. His hands were the worst, the nails broken and nearly torn off, the delicate skin under his fingertips raw and bloody. _But I'm still alive_. He would lose all ten of his fingers, and these words would not lose their sense of sweet victory. The agony scorching through him was a very hymn to his continued existence.

"What happened back there?" Heiss finally said.

The silence that hung after he spoke was thick, heavy like a summer sky before a coming storm.

"Do you know why the Old Empire fell?" Teo began.

Heiss allowed himself one glance towards the twins.

"They abused the power of Flux, didn't they? Through the use of their sorcery and their Thaumachines." He wondered why they made him repeat a story that every child of his family knew by heart. "In the end, they disrupted the balance of Mana on the continent."

"Do you know what tool brought this upon the world?"

 _"Tool?_ As in, a single one?"

"Yes," Teo said. "In the old days, the Emperors and Empresses allowed the creation of many objects capable of manipulating the flow of Mana." He sighed. "But only one was so powerful it was only granted to His or Her Majesty's closest confidant."

"What do you mean? What does it have to do with whatever... _happened_... back there?" Just saying it made Heiss shudder.

"Every Emperor or Empress possessed one adviser whose counsel they valued above all else," Lippti continued, ignoring Heiss' interruption. "Very often, it was a relative, one they cherished very much."

"A brother, a sister," Teo clarified.

"An uncle, an aunt, a cousin," Lippti completed her brother's words.

"Sometimes, they would even choose someone not of the Imperial bloodline."

Heiss let the words sink in. He began to frown. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would they give an object capable of using the power of Flux to somebody who can't even call on that power?"

"Because that object allows just anyone to manipulate the flow of Mana," said Teo.

"For someone of your bloodline, it focuses that power, granting its bearer a potential of magic greater than their lineage would simply allow," added his sister. She was silent for a while before she finished her thought. "It was a dangerous combination."

"What do you mean?" Heiss said, eyes narrowing.

"Your ancestors were relentless in their search for ways to control the very world in which they lived," said Teo.

"Their Thaumachines allowed for a certain part of their success," his sister continued.

Heiss thought of the applications of Thaumatech back in Alistel. Weaponry, machinery, even the field of medicine through the use of rather advanced prosthetics—yes, he could very well see how the Imperials had subjugated the continent with that kind of technology.

"But this alone did not content them," Teo interjected. "And so, they began to look for means to raise their magical potential in itself."

"Eugenics," Lippti said. "They carefully selected which trait, which magical affinity would be passed down to the next generation. In the end, they created a bloodline with a power unlike other."

"Flux," Heiss spat.

"With people bearing this skill, it was easier to amplify the potency of their magic," Lippti said. "Especially through the use of a certain ritual."

"I know that!" Heiss said, anger still brimming under the surface of his words. "I've read the history books! Did they not come up with that system to produce more Mana?"

It was difficult to see from here, but both twins slowly nodded.

"They did," Lippti said.

"Toward the end years of the Empire's life, there was a dire need for Mana brought about by the growing use of Thaumachines." Teo gave another sigh. "Many worked to find a solution to that problem, but none dedicated their lives to this as much as one bearer of the Black Chronicle did."

"A bearer of the Black Chronicle?" Heiss repeated, his voice coming out almost breathlessly.

"He was the last Emperor's younger brother—" Heiss felt the weight of the twins' stares as Teo's sentence came to an end, "—and his closest supporter."

"His closest—" Heiss gasped, suddenly understanding everything. "The Black Chronicle? It was the Black Chronicle that caused the Mana Breach in the middle of the continent?"

"Yes." The word fell down like a hammer. "Yes, it was."

Heiss looked at the White Chronicle, laying open in front of him, then back at the twins. "What happened?"

"The brother of the last Emperor never meant for everything to turn out that way," Lippti said softly.

"He was a remarkable man," Teo continued. "A scholar rather than a warrior, skilled in both magic and science."

"He was beloved by the people, and by his family—his brother, nephew and children." Lippti's voice wavered on the last words. "Many believed he should have been the one to ascend to the throne. He thought otherwise. He loved his brother too much to entertain such ideas, and never did he feel angry at being in the man's shadow."

"The Empire was fraught by conflicts borne of the death of the land," said Teo. "Back then, the Thaumatech engineers did not know the intrinsic relation between Mana and life itself."

"So the Emperor's brother set out to find a way to save the land."

Heiss' throat had gone dry again. "What link is there between this tale and what happened some moments ago? There..." He hesitated; remembering how helpless he had been back then, while Historia itself seemed to crumble down, almost made him break into a cold sweat. "There was... _something_... back there, wasn't it? Not just the two souls and the imprints of the past Sacrifices, but..."

The twins' silence did not help quell his fright. "The bearer of the Black Chronicle lost control."

"Lost control?" Heiss went to his feet, his stomach doing a painful somersault.

"The powers of the Black Chronicle were too great for him to command." Heiss was sure Teo's eyes were fixed on him. "He devoured most of the Empire in a single night."

 _"Devoured?!_ "

"The Black Chronicle does not have the same limitations as the White Chronicle when it comes to focusing its bearer's powers. He was not a man anymore at that point in time."

"Then, that _thing_ was—"

"What he became." Lippti's voice was unusually hoarse. "The Imperial sorcerers managed to create this dimension and sealed him—at great cost—away from the real world. What he left behind was a gaping maw of lifelessness in the heart of the continent."

"A maw that can be never filled, apparently," Heiss said. "Is there a link between the continued existence of our dear friend and our own inability to close the Mana breach for good?"

The twins exchanged a look. "Perhaps," said Teo. "He cannot escape this place, but the energy needed to keep him here is greater than was predicted. This could have an effect on the balance of Mana in the real world."

If he could have done so, Heiss would have leaped to strangle the boy's throat. "And you never saw fit to tell me, or any of the people who came before me?"

"We did tell some of the past Sacrifices," said Lippti. "Each of you have different means of coping with your lot in life. Some needed the truth, some preferred to advance blindfolded. They thought it would help them focus better on their duties."

"And me?" Heiss growled. "You did not trust me, then? There wasn't anything you could tell sweet little Heinrich?" He spat out the name like a curse.

"We are bound by the creators of this system to withhold some information from you," Lippti explained. "The awakening must come from your own understanding of the world."

"You," Teo added, "are a challenge. So close to your spiritual awakening, yet so far. But the White Chronicle chose you, so you have the potential to complete the Ritual, however difficult it is for you to accept this."

 _Potential!_ He was a _potential_ to them, nothing more!

"But now you are the only living soul who ever came face to face with this being," Teo went on. "Your rage and despair stirred the same emotions in the remains of the past Sacrifices. The sounds of their age-old suffering brought it out of its slumber."

"Oh, should I feel grateful for this wondrous occasion?" Heiss said. "Now that I know that you lied to me my entire life, the way you've lied to my ancestors. Now that I know you would do the very same with my nephew."

"Ernst's fate is—"

"You _dare_ use his name? After watching me fail to save him time after time without lifting one finger to help me? After you let him be _murdered?"_

"You believe our ability to glimpse into the future to be infallible. This is not the case—"

"Your powers fail when it is convenient for you," Heiss snarled at Teo. "Unfortunately for me. And unfortunately for Ernst." He nearly stumbled on his nephew's name, but he caught himself at the last second. Heiss limped toward the White Chronicle, seizing the book in one violent sweep.

"What are you going to do?" asked Lippti.

"Why should I tell you?" he shot back. He flipped through the pages, leaving bloody imprints on the yellowed paper. "I don't have to tell you anything."

Teo's sigh echoed through Historia. "If you believe so. You will fully understand when the time comes."

Heiss stopped at the page where the latest node had appeared and spared a final glare for the twins.

"I already have," he murmured before taking to his feet to leave this wretched place behind.

* * *

It was difficult to keep the boy in a state fit to move. When Heiss had found Ernst in the deepest parts of the castle dungeons, his nephew had been near death and shivering in a corner of his cell. The sight of his gaunt face and the stench of blood, of _decay_ , that clung to him had almost driven Heiss into a violent frenzy. It had been a severe test of his willpower to go against his desire to march straight into the throne room and slaughter Victor in plain view of all.

It had been an arduous task to drag Ernst's inert form to one of Castle Granorg's many secret passages. The trek had been too long to pull it in one go under the Vanish spell, and Victor had seen to post as many guards as he could. When at last, Heiss managed to reach the sewers under the castle, Ernst had started to thrash and moan. Heiss had to immediately knock him out with a sleep spell.

It had been the better way, the _only_ way, but Heiss still felt a flutter of horror at the memory. Under the spell, only Ernst's erratic, raspy breathing proved he was still alive. In their flight from the castle, the boy had stopped breathing altogether an alarming number of times, sending Heiss in a scramble to feel for his pulse. Fortunately, it had always been there, faint, but reassuringly present.

The boy was heavy, too, heavier than Heiss expected. As wiry as Ernst still was, he was now probably a good head taller than his uncle. _He takes after his father in that aspect_ , a rather morose Heiss realized.

It took Heiss more than one week to escape the city. By that point, he had not slept for almost two days. With the last of his strength, Heiss managed to lay Ernst under a tree in a forested area just outside of Gran Plain, before promptly drifting into unconsciousness as well. When Heiss found himself waking up, some hours later, he forced himself awake afterwards by scratching at the wounds on his hands, letting the pain and adrenaline coursing through his body serve as a stimulant to keep himself from dozing off.

Fortunately, Ernst's eyes soon fluttered open.

Heiss watched numbly as the boy started to shudder and grunt. Forgetting the fatigue assaulting his senses, Heiss rummaged through his supplies before moving closer to him, water canteen in his hands. The boy turned unfocused eyes to him, then began to pull away.

"W-Who are you?" he muttered.

"I'm not your enemy," Heiss answered. "Here, have a bit of water." Ernst's expression was full of suspicion, but he still raised a feeble hand to grab the canteen. "I have food, too. You must be starved." Heiss himself was famished, but he had saved the last of his provisions for the boy.

"W-Where are we? What happened? W-Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm here to help," Heiss repeated. "I got you out of the dungeons. Your father would have killed you by the end of the month."

"I know," Ernst mumbled. "I wasn't always out cold."

"I see," Heiss said, examining his nephew's expression closely.

"So, just who are you? Why—" he winced in pain, making Heiss hold out a hand in concern. The boy recoiled at the gesture.

Heiss slowly brought his hand back. It curled into a fist. "You don't recognize me?"

The boy kept panting, his face wary and guarded. "H-Have we met before?" Ernst gasped loudly. "Wait, it couldn't be... Uncle... Uncle _Heinrich?_ Could it really be you?" He clutched his chest, letting out a pained grunt.

"Ernst!" Heiss cried out. This time, he grabbed the boy's shoulders to lay him down. "Ernst, my boy, calm down! You haven't completely healed yet!"

"So," Ernst said, "it _is_ you. You've come back... why?"

Heiss stared at the boy, struck dumb by Ernst's disbelieving tone. "To save you, of course. I am going to get you out of your father's reach."

Ernst grimaced. "Really? What about my sister?"

"Your sister?" Heiss drew back. "What do you mean?"

"W-We have to save her, too. She's still in the castle, right?"

"She is," Heiss said, perplexed. "She's safe there. Your father would never harm his only remaining child."

"You don't know him," Ernst replied in a low hiss. "You don't know what he'll do to her."

"I _do_ know," Heiss retorted. "I grew up with the man." He moved away from Ernst, teeth clenching. _As if I didn't suffer from a few of his rages myself...!_

"And you would let her stay with him? Knowing this full well?"

"It _is_ the best for her. And for you. If your father manages to get his hands on both of you... he could very well complete what he has first set out to do!"

"And what's stopping him from finishing the Ritual with Eruca only? He's getting pretty desperate. And he's married again, haven't you heard? He doesn't need Eruca to be his heir."

Heiss laughed out loud at this, but the sound was mirthless, even a bit deranged.

"Does he truly believe he can replace her?" he told the boy. "You were born a good five years after your parents were married. For a while, the fact that they could not produce an heir was all the realm could talk about. You and your sister were happy exceptions. After your mother died, your father shuffled through a few mistresses, and it wasn't because he enjoyed their company. Yet, you don't have any half-brother or half-sister running about, do you?"

In truth, the man had been loath at the idea of betraying the woman he still loved in such a manner, but his courtiers had insisted on it. Heiss even remembered a few awkward nights where Victor had instead left the courtesans in his own chambers; he had always thrown the women out with icy courtesies, sending them back to Victor with a few choice words to express his displeasure.

"Do you think he cares about that?" Ernst shot back. "She's not safe with him. We _have_ to go back."

Heiss thought of his still-bleeding hands, and of the way his stomach kept grumbling painfully. He imagined the dark circles that must have deepened beneath his eyes. "Do you have any idea of the things I have gone through to get you out of there? As if I'll just let you waltz back in there while you're still half on the brink of death! And your father _..._ there would be no escape to his wrath if both you and your sister flee from his grasp."

Images and sounds of a life Heiss believed he had put behind him invaded his mind. _Your father went to war the last time I tried to save both of you. And I..._ He forcibly put an end to that train of thought; his already queasy stomach wouldn't have taken those particular memories very well.

"Then we deal with Father."

Heiss tensed, one hand reaching for the boy's shoulder. Oh, how he had longed to hear such words coming of Ernst's lips! In their current predicament, however, it could still spell trouble.

"Deal with him?" Heiss said breathlessly. "As in...?"

"As in deposing him through a coup. I won't have him harmed." Ernst's mouth was drawn in a stubborn line. "I'm not like him. I don't hurt the people of my family."

Heiss gave a joyless grin. "It would be easier just to kill him. How would you even pull such a stunt?"

"The people will back my claim. They've suffered under him as much as we did. I have friends, too. People who will help me."

"Friends, you say?" Heiss said, stifling another dark chuckle. "Yes, I believe I know who you mean."

The boy frowned. "Wait, what do you—?"

"It doesn't matter. _It doesn't matter._ " This time, Heiss could not contain his laughter. Ernst gave him a strange look. "I'm not letting you back there—"

Heiss abruptly stopped laughing. Ernst was watching him warily. Heiss peered closer at him. Yes, that long face, that thin, straight nose, the shape of his eyes—the boy had his mother's colouring, but everything else was his father. _How could I have been so blind to it before?_

"Uncle Heinrich?" Ernst's brows had come together, and his blue-green eyes were narrowing in doubt. Heiss inhaled sharply; how many times he had seen this face before, first in Granorg when Ernst had been just a child, then in Skalla while they had played at being a family? Every time the boy had frowned so, Isla had laughed and said that he looked just like—

 _Me. That expression is purely_ me _._ Heiss' heart soared at the thought. _He really is like me._ He seized Ernst by the shoulders again, forcing the boy to face him.

"I understand now," Heiss said. "I understand what we should do."

"J-Just what are you thinking?"

"Don't worry, my boy." A manic glee now coloured Heiss' words. "I understand perfectly what you want to do. What we _need_ to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What I'm not showing here is that immediately after this chapter Heiss burst into an amazing rendition of 'Let it go' from Frozen... (except he goes around setting things on fire instead of making amazing ice palaces but whatev.) As always, thank you readers/reviewers, for sticking with me so far! And thank you ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for your hard work as a beta!


	17. Chapter 15 - Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The capital city of Granorg was on fire.

Or at least it was how it seemed to Heiss as he looked outside from his present vantage point, in one of Castle Granorg's numerous passageways. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could also see the blood slowly draining from Ernst's face when the boy caught sight of the smoke rising above the roofs in the distance. His nephew obviously hadn't expected the riots to grow to such a size.

It had taken everything to convince Ernst to go along with their plan. The boy had trembled with rage at the idea of Victor's soldiers hunting the members of the Resistance in the streets below. He had fought even more when his friends had told him they would have to bring the Granorgite citizens into the fray. _Let them retake their city_ , Heiss had said to his nephew. _They will gladly join your side. Why not use them?_ A muscle had twitched in the corner of Ernst's mouth when Heiss had told him this, but the boy had otherwise remained silent.

Heiss had slighty been disappointed by Ernst's naivety, and so he hadn't told the boy about the layers of precaution hidden through the folds of his plan. Neither Ernst nor the other ruffians that made up the Resistance were aware that some of their "friends" answered to Heiss, in truth. None of them knew that he had ordered those few to put to the torch a number of particularly problematic neighbourhoods. Heiss would have preferred to do more, but Ernst's comrades trusted him very little. When the boy had first brought him to one of their secret meetings, the rebels hadn't quite believed him to be the prince's long-lost uncle. _They'll be sorry once the fighting starts_ , Heiss thought morosely. _They should have left me in charge._

"Your Highness?" said one of Ernst's friends—her name was Iris, Heiss recalled. She lightly tapped the boy on the shoulder. "Shouldn't we...?"

Ernst had been watching the spectacle below, speechless with horror, for far too many precious seconds. At the sound of the young woman's voice, he blinked once or twice and then turned to face her.

"I'm sorry everyone. " He swallowed nervously. "You're right, we should get going."

Ernst's gaze had grown dark, and it was with an uncharacteristic set to his jaw that he then followed his uncle and friends toward the heart of the palace, where they believed they would find Victor. As they went deeper, they encountered many guardsmen, far more than the rebels would have preferred. The boy and his companions had counted on the riots in the city to drive a part of the castle's garrison away from their posts. Heiss was not surprised that his brother had done the opposite and instead kept his soldiers close to him.

Their first casualty turned out to be the boy called Will. Heiss vaguely remembered him from that time, all those years ago, when he had tried to infiltrate Granorg's then fledgling Resistance. The fighting had barely begun when he was quickly cornered by a pair of knights. They disposed of him before he could even scream.

 _"Will!"_ Ernst cried out.

The sound of his voice froze Heiss on the spot. A mere second later, and the soldiers were pointing to his nephew with shouts of surprise. Heiss swore under his breath. _That idiot boy! He's going to get himself killed!_

The knights rushed in Ernst's direction. The Resistance members jumped in front of the boy, swords and shields at the ready. As the clashes of blades filled the air, Heiss vanished out of sight. Not long afterward, and he had reappeared behind the armoured soldiers, his arm outstretched, lightning crackling within his palm. Ernst's friends stepped back in horror as the thunder spell struck the knights before they could even turn to see the face of their killer.

More guards erupted from the end of the corridor. They charged at Heiss, and the latter called on his Mana again. The members of the Resistance dashed to meet the soldiers' blades, leaving Heiss undisturbed to finish his incantation. As the lightning burst of his hands again, he felt the heat of a trail of fire warming his cheek. The ensuing explosion knocked two knights off their feet, and Heiss could not help but spare a grin to the one who had cast the fire spell. Ernst did not return his uncle's smile. He was unmoving as a statue, his face rigid with shock and disgust.

There was no time to contemplate the boy's turmoil. For every soldier Heiss managed to cut down, three more poured into the corridor. The corpses of Ernst's comrades soon littered the ground, scattered through the cadavers of the castle guardsmen. Ernst seemed to have screamed himself hoarse crying out his friends' names.

 _Good_ , Heiss found himself thinking. _Perhaps this will make him stop stumbling around blindly. Let him learn, let him understand. Let him live for once..._

There was a sudden shout from one of the rebels. A group of soldiers had turned the corner just up ahead. Heiss peered closer at their uniforms and let out an irritated sound. _Spellcasters!_ The best magic-users were all fighting on the war front, but some were permanently stationed in Castle Granorg as part of Victor's elite unit of bodyguards. _So be it, then! Let's see just how dedicated Ernst's friends are to his cause!_

Heiss sheathed his dagger and ran to Ernst's side. His nephew raised to him bewildered—and slightly suspicious—blue-green eyes. His frown only deepened when Heiss grabbed his arm.

"Uncle," Ernst uttered, "what are you doing?"

"Let's go," Heiss cut him off. "It's too dangerous here. We need to finish what we set out to do and get out of here."

"But—" Ernst's reply was drowned by the low rumblings of an incoming explosion. Heiss pulled Ernst away as flames licked the stone floor. A few rebels stumbled away from the force of the fire spell, but the rest—

"Dammit! _Dammit!_ " Ernst screamed. He tried to reach for his companions, but Heiss tugged on his arm, dragging him away. He draped them under the cover of the Vanish spell and held onto Ernst's hand as he ran. The boy was too stunned to protest.

 _"Stop!_ " Ernst eventually shouted above the still resounding noises of battle. "Let me go, dammit, let me go!"

With a grunt of annoyance, Heiss shoved him in the first open door he came across. It seemed to lead to a storage room of some sort.

Ernst staggered into the room and shot an irate look at his uncle.

"You... just what the hell are you doing?" He marched right up to Heiss and stared down at him. "We have to go back. _We have to!_ "

Heiss held Ernst's glare. "We are here for a reason. One that does not need you to play martyr."

"How do you intend to capture Father if—?"

"Capture?" Heiss had to refrain himself from laughing. "Who said that I was here to _capture_ him? No, boy, we need to kill him."

Ernst's eyes flashed with animosity. "You lied to me."

"Because it is the only way to accomplish something when you are involved." _God, so smart yet so obtuse..._ "We should find a place to keep you safe from harm. I'll be the one to take care of your father."

"Y-You _bastard!_ "

Heiss tried to reply, but a deflagration in the distance snapped his attention away. "Wait... was this—?"

"The sound of a gun." Ernst's hand curled into a fist. "Father's here."

Another gunshot resounded outside. Several more followed as Ernst and Heiss remained still, listening to the faraway commotion with mounting dread.

Finally, the sound of fighting died down. Ernst went white as a ghost.

"The others," he murmured in a strangled voice.

"They had no chance against the guards," Heiss said gruffly. He pulled on Ernst's arm to snap him out of his daze. "Ernst, there's nothing we can do, let's go." He hated the oddly pleading note that had crept into his voice.

Ernst did not budge. "No, we can't," he said, "I won't leave until we find Eruca."

 _This again!_ "We could have all avoided this if you had simply listened to what I said and never brought me here!" snapped Heiss. "Ernst, if you don't leave, we'll lose everything that I have achieved. Your father will kill you! This is not the time to be playing the hero!"

There were a couple of shouts coming from outside. Heiss recognized his brother's voice yelling something unintelligible. Not long after, they could hear boots drumming against the ground.

 _"Ernst_ ," Heiss said, _"we have to go!_ " He tugged on Ernst's arm, but the boy stood his ground, stubborn as always.

"You can use the White Chronicle to go back and do all of this again, right?"

The air sapped out of Heiss' lungs. "What on earth are you getting at, boy?"

"Save them," Ernst said, moving his hand to touch the bag where Heiss always kept the White Chronicle. Heiss could feel his fingers tightening around Ernst's arm as he heard Victor and the guards getting nearer. "Eruca, all of my friends. Go back and save them for me."

"I'm not—" Heiss began, but his brother and the guards chose to erupt into the room at this moment, cutting him short. The knights' swords were dripping with fresh blood, and Victor had his rifle raised and ready.

"Prince Ernst," the king growled, the barrel of his gun pointed at his son. "I should have known." Victor seemed barely able to hold his anger at bay. Ernst stared back at him in silent defiance. "And to think I almost entertained the idea of sparing your life for the sake of your dear mother. How would she react now, seeing you plotting against a member of your own family?"

The king's gaze then slowly veered towards Heiss. "And who is this... another of your pawns? This one is older than all of the others—" Victor's voice trailed off as the realization sunk in.

Heiss barely had the time to blink before the rage that had been simmering under his brother's skin exploded; a stifling warmth swept through the room as Victor called upon his innate magical potential.

 _"YOU!_ " Victor roared, his features contorted in loathing, his usually cold blue eyes afire with hatred, _"You're the one who turned my son against me! You traitor, traitor, TRAITOR!_ "

Victor's rifle changed course, and a split second later the barrel was now directly aiming for Heiss' head. Heiss reached for his bag, but he knew he wouldn't manage to get hold of the Chronicle before the bullet of concentrated magic would tear open his skull. There was a crackle of magical energy as the king invoked the flow of Mana inside him, forcing it inside the mechanism of the gun. There was an ear-shattering detonation—and Heiss could feel himself being pushed out of the way.

_No!_

All of his being protested as Ernst forced him out of the bullet's trajectory. Almost in slow-motion Heiss saw the burst of magical energy hit the boy in the chest, exploding in a shower of sparks and blood. Ernst hit the ground with a dull thud.

_No, no, nonononononono—_

Heiss could hear Victor shouting something in shock and anger, but he was past caring. Heiss bolted on his feet, flipping his coat back to get hold of his dagger, and rushed toward his brother, blade in hand. A guard jumped in front of the king and raised his own weapon to protect the man, but it was all in vain. With a flash of blue, Heiss disappeared from view. The sword came down where Heiss had been standing mere seconds earlier and he reappeared briefly to stab the man in the unprotected portion of his neck. The blade came out of the wound as quickly as it had gone in, and a spurt of bright red blood rained on Heiss' face. He vanished again and made his way toward Victor.

 _"Get him, GET HIM!_ " Victor screamed.

Lightning crackled out of Heiss' palm as he deflected another attack. This time, the guard's sword did draw blood, but Heiss' immediate counterattack left him convulsing on the floor. Heiss' empty hand went to the wound on his side as he blinked out of sight again to evade another of Victor's shots. He did not even bother to come into view as he plunged his blade in the slight opening between the plate and the neck portion of the soldier's armour. Victor's eyes noticeably widened in terror as blood erupted out of the man's wound, and even the last surviving guard stumbled backward, mouthing something that seemed like half a curse, half a plea for mercy.

Victor turned on his heel to flee. The sight of his brother's back forced a snarl out of Heiss' throat, and the air around him began to crepitate. The fire spell burst right into the remaining guardman's face, and the man fell down with a shriek, his features blackened and blistering. The force of the explosion also sent Victor flying, and in the blink of an eye Heiss was upon him, dagger sinking into the king's stomach. Victor raised weak arms in an attempt to fend his assailant off, and there was a flash of silver as Heiss caught glimpse of a knife in his brother's hand. Pain flared from Heiss' left arm as his brother buried the blade in the crook of his limb, but he pressed on, twisting the dagger in the wound then slowly going upward from his gut to his torso, rupturing the flesh and muscles that stood in the way with surgical coldness. Victor's arms fell limply to his sides, and his chest heaved one final time before his gaze became very still.

Heiss let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He stood up on shaky legs. His head was spinning, and the tips of his fingers were slowly going numb. He stumbled his way to Ernst's inert form. The boy's eyes were closed, and a trickle of blood was coming out of one corner of his lips... but so was a soft, wheezing sound.

Heiss' heart skipped a beat. _He's still alive!_ His nephew was still breathing!

Heiss gathered all his energy. "Ernst," he croaked, fighting his dizziness, _"Ernst."_ His eyes burned. There was nothing he could do. He had no means of healing the boy. He himself was in a terrible shape. Heiss sucked in a sob. "Ernst, _Ernst_..."

The sound of approaching footsteps took his attention away from his dying nephew. A pair of women—no, of young girls—was standing by the open door. The closest was a mere foot away from Victor's corpse.

"My lady!" cried out the girl who stood the farthest away from Heiss, "my lady, keep away from him!"

Eruca just shook her head as she faced her uncle, blue eyes wide and empty.

"Father," she murmured. She contemplated the corpses littering the room. "My f-father... a-all these people... did you kill them?"

Behind her, the handmaid gave another panic-filled shout, but Eruca seemed to pay her no mind. She just looked at Heiss. The latter stared back; the words had died in his throat, but a sound was churning in the pit of his stomach. When it reached his mouth it erupted suddenly, and Heiss was laughing, _laughing_ —

"Astutely observed!" was all he managed to utter. Eruca's eyes grew large with horror, but all Heiss could do was _laugh_. The blood kept pounding so loud in his ears he could almost not hear himself. _It hurts, everything_ hurts _so much..._

"Y-You _killed_ him," Eruca said breathlessly. This time, Heiss' laughter grew darker. The two girls recoiled at the sound.

"I did you a _favour_ ," Heiss hissed between grit teeth. "I did everyone a favour." Why couldn't anyone see it? _Why couldn't Ernst...?_

The handmaid began to sob hysterically, but Eruca remained silent. Her pale gaze wandered over the carnage, finally finding the boy lying at Heiss' feet. This time, she let out a gasp and covered her mouth with her hands.

"Brother!" She gathered her dress to rush toward Ernst's dying form. "Oh my god, _Ernst!_ "

"My lady, _no!_ " Eruca's handmaid managed to grab and stop Eruca in her tracks. "Princess, this man is dangerous!" A pained moan then escaped Ernst's lips. The two girls froze, startled, while Heiss turned sharply to look at the boy.

"He's still alive," he heard Eruca whisper. "He's still alive!" Heiss brought his gaze to her again as she shouted. "You... did you...?"

The world in front of Heiss' eyes was getting blurrier and bleaker by the second. He wanted to faint. He wanted to hurl. In the end, he just smiled weakly, his features devoid of any humour.

"You silly girl," he said, taking great care to keep his voice steady, "you silly, _silly_ girl."

A bout of dizziness nearly sent Heiss to the floor then. As he held his head, groaning, he heard the maid gasping.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see the end of a barrel pointing right at his face.

"Get away from h-him," Eruca said, her last word punctuated by a sob. "G-get away from my brother." She looked so serious. She was trying to _threaten_ him. It was too much. It was _just_ too much.

Heiss burst into laughter again.

"Let go of that weapon, Eruca. You have no idea w-what—you have no idea what you are _doing_." It was harder to speak now. _I need to get out of here._ Panting, Heiss dropped the bloodied dagger then reached for the White Chronicle with unsteady hands. _Everything... everything is going to hell, anyway..._

There was a soft clicking sound, then an explosion that tore at Heiss' eardrums. Blood suddenly spurted out of a gash on his coat. He staggered backward, pain momentarily blinding him. When he came to his senses not a second later, the latter part of his right arm was throbbing in pain. The bullet had only grazed him, but—

His clouded gaze found Eruca again. "You," he rasped, "you _shot_ me."

Eruca's cheeks were streaked with tears. "Get away— _get away from my brother!_ " She raised the smoking barrel of the gun again, as Heiss limped toward her. "S-stop! _Get away!_ "

"You stupid little _brat_ ," Heiss spat. Never had the girl been so infuriating. Never had he felt the need to put her in her place so strongly. "I swear I'll—"

He never had the time to finish. There was another deflagration—and then _,_ everything went stark white. There was a feminine shriek as Heiss' legs buckled beneath him; the sound seemed to come from half a world away.

Heiss fell flat on the floor with a resounding crash. A harsh sound tore through the air. His throat burned as the screech ripped its way through his mouth. His back arched, and tremors rippled over his limbs. And yet, he could only register the pain screaming from every inch of his body. He was _dying_.

 _I can't die_ , the thought pierced through the haze of pain that had settled over his mind. _I can't, I can't._

Darkness invaded his vision. His arms wouldn't move. _I can't die. I can't die!_ A scream burst through his lips again. Every breath set his lungs on fire. He forced his eyes to focus. _I can't die, I can't, I can't—I won't!_ His fingers reached and touched the old book that was laying open beside him. _Take me back, oh god, take me back, please!_

The world exploded in a flash of green light. In the distance, two children shouted his name. His eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets. Here, yes, there was orange and red and grey—Historia, this was Historia.

"Heinrich!" a child's voice screamed again.

Stairs. There were stairs up above. _Reach for the stairs. Reach for the stairs, reach—_

He climbed—no _dragged_ himself across a step. Then two, then three, then four. _I can't die. I don't want to die—_

"You're nearly there, Heinrich! Don't give up!"

He was finally at the top. The doors, only the doors remained. His hand trembled toward the great stone gateway. He was close, _so_ close. The doors would not open.

A soft whine escaped his lips. _Please. Someone help me._ His eyes were closing.

There was a great noise, and light peered over Heiss' unmoving form. A gentle breeze caressed his cheek.

"Go, Heinrich!" one of the twins called out. "Quickly!"

The gateway was opening. With the last of his strength, Heiss pulled himself toward the light—

—and promptly fell out of a chair. A chair, a desk, walls of rust and metal. _My office, my office back in Castle Alistel._ He crawled against the floor, leaving a trail of blood along the way. _Don't want to die, don't, can't, won't—_

He dragged himself out of his office. Fresh air greeted his nostrils. _Corridor, outside, find someone—_

The sound of footsteps came to his ears. _Help, help—_

Papers fluttered in front of him. Legs, yes, there was a pair of legs running toward him. Someone was yelling. Another voice shouted a response he could not make out.

Heiss coughed up blood. He looked at the puddle of red that was forming beneath him until the edges of his vision filled with grey. With one last exhalation, he closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

* * *

The castle gardeners were infuriating sometimes. Heinrich had instructed them to keep away from his portions of the greenhouse, yet too often he would find servants loitering around his samples. Upon catching sight of him, they would always stutter half-baked apologies before rushing out of the glass structure, followed all the way by Heinrich's disdainful gaze.

He would have used his own garden, but the air had been surprisingly cool these last few weeks. How silly would he have looked, to spend so much time trying to raise the little pea plants to maturity, only to have them die from a sudden bout of chill? Victor would have never let the matter go without one or two derisive comments, Heinrich was sure.

The palace glasshouse was located in the northern reach of the estate, near a grand oak tree that Heinrich had loved since his tender boyhood. He made his way inside, passing rows and rows of tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers. He finally reached his little sprouts. A recent paper on the hybridization process of plant organisms had piqued his interest, and so Heinrich had been keen on repeating the researcher's experiment on his own to see if there was any truth to the man's claims. Heinrich wondered if he could then confirm or counter the scientist's assertions through a treatise of his own. The idea brought a smile to his face.

Heinrich peered over the perfectly ordered succession of pea sprouts. The leaves were yellow and brittle, the flowers withered and deadened. With a gasp, he dug his fingers into the soil. Sand. It was all sand.

 _How could this be?_ He carefully, lovingly, unearthed one of the little plants. His heart sank. A wind suddenly rose, and under his startled gaze the sprout started to come apart, bit by bit. Soon, it had collapsed into a pile of sand in his hands.

A disturbed Heinrich turned to look outside. It was very dark, and so he could barely make out the outline of the oak tree. He noticed a large hole in the glass wall, almost as if someone had smashed into it; the wind was coming from there. That was unusual.

Heinrich approached the hole and climbed out of the greenhouse. A broken shard cut his cheek, but he only swatted the blood away with an impatient hand. He made his way toward the great oak and stopped, his breath hitching in his throat. A large ravine had formed itself on one side of the tree, the bottom so deep he could not even see it.

Heinrich gasped as he took a step backward. Speck by speck, the ground was leaking into the deepening abyss. He could even begin to see the bare roots of the tree, and the trunk leaned heavily toward the great maw. Heinrich nearly stumbled backward. The ground was starting to become rather unstable.

 _Sand_ , he realized, _it's all transforming to sand._ He let out a curse and tried to move away. Instead, one of his feet slipped, and he fell right on a newly formed dune. The sand under him was quickening toward the great chasm. He futilely tried to grab onto something, but his hand only closed around dust. He gave a scream as he fell through the abyss.

The fall should have broken bones, but strangely enough, he was unscathed. Heinrich's fingers began to feel for the ground beneath him; this time, it was pure, solid rock. He appeared to be in a cavern of some sort, one that was only illuminated by several prickles of light. _Stars_ , he thought at first, before realizing it was in fact numerous little crystals of Mana. Somewhere far away echoed the crack of a whip. Heinrich became very still at the sound. Only severe willpower kept him from expelling the content of his stomach on the ground.

Teeth chattering, Heinrich blundered his way through the cave. His heart was pounding in his ribcage. He had to get away from here—he had had enough of the whip. Heinrich ran until two indistinct forms began to appear in the distance. Human forms, he realized. Panting, he dropped the pace, muscles tensing in anticipation.

The teenager lying on the ground would have been impossible to identify if not for his characteristic golden hair. Ernst's features had been pummelled into an unrecognizable mess. A crimson hole had ripped his chest apart. A girl stood above him, silent and still, her hands dripping with blood.

Heinrich inhaled sharply. _"Eruca_. _"_ The name felt disgusting on his tongue. "Who did this?"

Heinrich's niece raised hollow eyes to him. The barrel of her gun soon followed suit. "It's always about this, isn't it?" she said softly. "You being jealous of Father?"

Heinrich drew back with a hiss. "You little brat." He held his hand above her head as to strike her; it seemed as if his fingers were growing longer, the tips sharpening into claws. They cast a looming shadow over her now frightened face. "Why must you always doubt—?"

She fired. Blood burst out of Heinrich's shoulder. He arched backward, into the void. Eruca watched him fall with indifferent eyes.

Above him, the lights were going out. The stars were dying. And soon, a terrifying booming sound shook the very air. It was here. He was lost. _No... no! Don't let it have me!_

Heinrich broke his fall by grabbing onto the first object he came across, a floating staircase that had met his path. Above him, the familiar platforms of grey slate collided into one another. His other arm was useless; he could not raise it, could not pull himself to safety. The remains of the broken platforms were plummeting in his direction. His screams echoed throughout the emptiness as the wreckage crashed into the staircase on which he was hanging for dear life. Stone ground against stone, crushing his arm and pulverizing the bones and flesh underneath.

Rock and metal and mortar swirled in the darkness before rushing in his direction. They bruised, maimed, and pierced his battered body. He screamed, wildly thrashing under the assault. They tore his skin by chunks, punctured the soft organs beneath, crushed the bones into fine dust. His terrified eyes caught every second of this ghastly spectacle. Another scream was wrenched out of him, and he prayed the end would come soon, because _it hurts, everything hurts so much—_

A harsh white light flashed into his eyes. Something had changed—gone were the terrifying sounds of the stone crunching his flesh and bones. But the pain, the _pain_ had grown to dizzying new heights.

"He's waking up!" a voice shouted. The sound of it rung in his ears, adding to the agony.

"Hold him down!"

Hands wrapped themselves around him. Heiss felt his body tense, and his arms began to jerk under the foreign touch. He kicked under him, his feet hitting a hard surface that cracked under the force of the blow.

"Cast a sleeping spell on him again! Quick!"

"I said hold him down, dammit!"

Heiss screamed and screamed. Something was pushing him down, flat on his back. He thrashed under the pressure. _It hurts, it hurts, make it stop!_

His gaze was unfocused. White shapes were gathered around him. Their hands glowed green.

"Easy there, easy... we're not here to hurt you," a new voice said. This one attempted to sound soothing. Heiss only grit his teeth together, still trying to writhe out of the grasp of whoever kept him in place. His movements began to slow down when a new light shone above his head. His screams died in his throat, his tensions began to ease up.

"There, isn't that better? Just sleep, we'll take care of everything."

Heiss wanted to shout. He was not calm. He wanted to wring his hands around someone's neck. He wanted to _kill_. But it was getting difficult to stay focused. He was getting weaker and weaker...

Heiss gave a low groan, his screams dying in his throat. He fell asleep a mere second afterwards.

* * *

Consciousness came back to him in the form of strange, disjointed thoughts. Then, the pain began to slowly ebb back. He let out a grunt and tried to move. His limbs refused to listen to his command.

There was movement somewhere to his right. His vision cleared just enough to let him see a pale, human-shaped form labouring over something on the other side of the room. The smell of flowers floated to his nostrils. That was bizarre. The light over his head glowed green; clearly, it was artificial. Just where was he...?

Heiss emitted another groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The sound seemed to have caught the attention of the person to his left, and soon he heard the rhythmic _tap-tap_ of their footsteps as they came closer.

"Sir? Are you awake?"

Heiss opened his eyes again. It was a young girl, perhaps of age with Ernst. She had short brown hair and striking green eyes.

"Please don't move," she said. "I'll fetch the doctor to have a look at your wounds. I'll be back soon."

She left without another word, and Heiss felt his tenuous hold on consciousness vacillate again. He appeared to be in the infirmary of Castle Alistel. The events that left him confined to this bed started to seep back into his mind. The memories brought a tightness to his chest, one that made it difficult to breathe.

 _I failed. I failed yet again._ Heiss almost wanted to embrace the darkness once more. _If only I wasn't so weak..._

He heard the door opening again, then his ears picked up the strangest of sounds; it resembled the low, whirring noise of the thaumachine automatons the Alistellian higher-ups were so keen on developing. Heiss managed to prop himself on one arm to get a better look.

The girl from before had come back, and she had brought with her a bespectacled young man sitting in a mechanical chair of some sort. The man's features were unknown to Heiss, but it would have been idiotic of him not to be aware of who he was: Professor Rowan, one of the two heads of the Thaumatech Research and Development Division.

"Good morning," the professor said amicably, wheeling himself to Heiss' side. "Are you feeling better now? I hope so. You caused quite a commotion at our division, do you know that?"

"Rowan!" the girl cried out.

Heiss tried to understand what the man meant, reaching in the meanders of his memories for clues, but everything stayed nebulous.

"It is true," Rowan said. His tone was oddly light. "You broke my subordinate's jaw."

"You don't need to tell him that," the girl said, sighing. She sent Heiss a contrite look. "Please forgive my brother's rudeness, sir."

"I think you left some bruises, too, perhaps even a broken nose or two," the professor continued. The girl pinched her mouth, but he never noticed her irritation. "This is all very amusing since we believed you wouldn't even survive the first night. Possibly you wanted to prove us wrong. You didn't have to do it so violently, though."

"Professor!" the girl interrupted him, a forced, frigid smile on her lips. "Don't you have to attend to your patient?"

"Hmm? Oh, you're right. Obviously, he hasn't bled to death this night, so his wounds have not reopened—"

_"Rowan!"_

"—but of course they wouldn't have, I have more faith in my healing spells than this. I am an engineer by trade," he turned to face Heiss as he suddenly changed subject, his face breaking into a bizarre grin, "but the Medical Department sometimes asks for my help. This is just a hobby for me, would you believe it?"

"My," Heiss croaked, "my wounds... what happened to me? Tell me."

Rowan tilted his head to the side. "Oh. Oh, _that's_ what you want to know. You were unconscious for the better part of everything. I'd forgotten. It happens sometimes." He waved his hand as if to swat an imaginary fly. "You had some pretty deep gashes to the side and in the crook of your left arm. But the worst was actually the wound in your right shoulder. Whatever hit you there shattered a large part of your shoulder blade. A pretty strange wound, all in all. I have never seen anything quite like it."

Fury boiled within Heiss again. _Eruca. She did this._

"With the amount of blood you seemed to have lost, it's a miracle that you still live. You're a very strange patient, Mr. Heiss."

Heiss managed to muster a glare. "You know my name."

"Apparently you're one of Hugo's people. Don't care much for the man, if you ask me. He wants to lead our division into a direction I personally find—"

"Rowan, please," the young healer said. "You don't need to bother our patient with such boring stories."

The professor looked appalled. "Boring? Sonja, do you have any idea of how much time and effort they would have us waste if—"

"It is wonderful to see you so much better, sir," the girl named Sonja said, cutting off her brother again. "We'll check on you later. Do you need anything?"

"No," Heiss replied, "just let me rest."

"Just call if you need any help—"

"—or if you have anything to say about the source of that strange wound." Professor Rowan's green eyes were glistening with interest. "I happened to have devised this theory that—"

 _"Let's go_ , Rowan." The girl went to the door and motioned over to her brother. The man wheeled himself out with a petulant sigh.

* * *

Despite the severity of his wounds, Heiss recovered faster than it would have been natural. The pain receded as the days went by, although this time a faint ache lingered. One night when he had been lying in his cot came the sobering realizating that this pain would probably never truly disappear. The idea did nothing to appease the growing discontentment within Heiss' aging bones.

Heiss was given his leave two weeks afterwards. Still, worry gnawed at the back of his mind. With certain dread, he began to train again, practising the old moves the masters-at-arms had taught him back in Castle Granorg as well as the tricks he had picked up during his travels. Despite all of his efforts, his movements were stiff and his limbs, unresponsive. Then, a severe pain in both arms would always surge up, crippling him for the better part of the day afterwards. After one month of this unsatisfactory routine, Heiss finally went to the infirmary to question Professor Rowan.

"Perhaps you shouldn't push yourself too hard?" Rowan told him. "Your wounds were rather severe, after all."

 _Yes... no thanks to my brother and his halfwit daughter._ "My time is rather limited. When do you think I'll be able to get back to combat?"

"Is that your concern?" The professor pushed his glasses up his nose. "You _do_ know that magical healing cannot accomplish miracles, do you not?"

"I know." _I don't care._

"We've healed you to the best of our capacity. There are, well, certain _limits_ you must learn to accept now."

"Limits?" Heiss repeated. Rage prickled under his skin. "What do you mean, limits?"

Professor Rowan scratched the back of his neck. "I've seen and treated soldiers with wounds as serious as yours. They never truly recovered. Perhaps it would be better for you from now on to—"

"I can't," Heiss interrupted him. He shot Rowan a look full of rancour. "Is there anything you can do?"

"Well, really, I don't believe I can—"

"I don't care for your excuses." He moved closer to the wheelchair-bound professor, towering over him. "There must be a way. Is there?"

Professor Rowan seemed unperturbed by the way Heiss loomed over him. "Maybe? I told you, medicine is not my expertise. Thaumatech engineering is."

Heiss only glowered at the man, never saying a word.

"More precisely, I would say my domain is the creation of Thaumatech-based prosthetics..."

"Prosthetics," Heiss said. Could this be an avenue? "Tell me more."

"You've seen some of my Gauntlets, yes? On the few unfortunate soldiers who came home missing bits and parts?"

"I know about that," said Heiss. "What about someone who isn't missing parts?"

"Well, there is a shortage of candidates on this part, so I do not know the answer, sadly." Rowan raised his gaze to Heiss. His eyes were shining. "Unless...?"

"Could you do it? And soon?"

"Yes, yes," Rowan muttered, more to himself than to Heiss. "We've had some attempts, and it never truly worked, but perhaps now..."

"It won't fail," Heiss said sharply. "I won't allow it."

Rowan gave him a strange look. "It will be a very painful procedure. Are you sure you want to do it? A quiet retirement might be all you need."

"I'll do it." With the full extent of his capabilities, Heiss had always failed. What would it be with an old body that was half a wreck? "I _have_ to do it."

"Wonderful!" The professor rubbed his hands together. "When would you be ready to start?"

Rowan seemed unawre of the dark glint in Heiss' eyes. " _Now._ "

* * *

The professor hadn't been lying. They kept Heiss heavily sedated throughout the entire operation, but sometimes he broke through the haze of unconsciousness brought about by the drugs and sleep spells. The sight that would then greet his eyes belonged to a nightmare: they had strapped him down to the operating table and cut open his arms, showing the red, bloody flesh underneath. Always he would trash and scream, but the straps held him in place, and the gag in his mouth prevented any sound from escaping his mouth. They would knock him out immediately afterwards, mercifully sending him back to the sweetness of sleep.

Heiss' awakening was much like the one that had followed the preceding surgery. He tiptoed the fine line between dreams and the real word, unwilling to leave the comforts of unconsciousness. Finally, his eyes fluttered open.

There still was this omnipresent smell of flowers. Heiss found it clashed horribly with the pipes and wires that covered the metal walls of the infirmary. He slowly sat up. Taking a deep breath, Heiss raised both arms to look at Rowan's creation.

The gold and copper plating stood out, as did the silver contraption that replaced most of the joints in his elbows. It emitted a soft whirring whenever he bent his arms. His hands looked the same, but Heiss could tell it was not the case. As the fingers curled he could feel the working of the mechanisms inside, the cables and little pistons acting in concert with the muscles and the bones. His right hand tightened into a fist. He hadn't been able to do this very simple movement for decades. Heiss held up his hands in front of his face, struck silent by a swelling sense of awe.

Heiss slipped out of his cot and staggered across the room. He stopped in front of a wall and raised a hand, putting it against the metal. He could barely feel its coolness. He let out a thunderous cry and channelled all his rage, all his humiliation, as he struck the steel. There was a terrible whine as the metal twisted open, the Gauntlet cutting through the wall as easily as it were paper. Heiss brought his hand to his face again. Blades had erupted from under the skin, elongating each finger into a razor-sharp claw.

Heiss regarded the mix of flesh and machine, feeling a smile tugging on his lips. As he raised his arm to strike at the wall again, it grew into a savage grin.

The steel sang for him a song of victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thank you readers! Ishouldliveinsalt/InfernalFantasy also gets free Internet cookies for being an all-around amazing beta.


	18. Chapter 16 - The Grinning Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Eruca listened to the distant sounds that were filtering back to her ears, desperately fighting her sleepiness. She could hear the clanging footfalls of the knights patrolling outside her room, the few words they exchanged here and there, and the soft crackle of the fire that was still lit in her bedroom hearth. Hidden under her bedsheets, Eruca waited for the noises to die down. She had no way to know what time it truly was. There was an old grandfather clock in a darkened corner of her chambers, but when it had become silent, a few months ago, she had not asked for it to be repaired. She'd always found its monotonous _tick-tock_ creepy, especially on nights like this, when she was so conscious of how alone she truly was.

The knights seemed to have settled down. Eruca knew they would never stop making their rounds. However, they were still humans, prone to fatigue just like any other people. She hoped it would be enough to keep them from hearing her.

Eruca gingerly placed one foot on the floor, then another. She put a few pillows under the bedcovers and grasped the lamp resting on her night table with trembling hands. She would have to wait until she had climbed down from her window to light it.

Eruca pushed the balcony door slowly, slipping through the slightest opening she could muster before closing it. Outside the air was cool, colder than any early autumnal night had the right to be. She gathered her breath as she glanced down at the ivy climbing up the wall to her room. Ernst would have laughed and grabbed the first vine without even losing his smile. But she wasn't Ernst.

Eruca tried to find an adequate balance as she descended. The leaves rustled under her, and she prayed no passing guard would hear it. It was difficult to have a good grip with one hand already holding the lamp. She kept her eyes squeezed shut until she felt the dewy coolness of the grass under her feet.

There appeared to be no one. Eruca found a match in the satchel tied around her nightrobe then lit her lamp. She crossed the palace courtyard quickly, on tiptoes as not to alert the guards. _Please, please!_ she begged no one in particular. If any god or spirit existed, they had never shown any sign that they ever heard her pleas. _Let him be alright!_

Eruca slowed down as she entered the castle again. She held a hand against the little flame flickering on her lamp. Fragments of conversation came to her. She emitted a soft whine, her hopes nearly dashing into a wall. The castle never slept, after all. _They'll find me._ She bit her lower lip to keep herself from crying. She had to press forward, or else _—or else how can I see if what they say is true?_ She had not seen her brother for almost a month. The last time had been when the Black Chronicle had been thrust into her hands, and she had been forced _to_ —(even her mind couldn't say the words). She heard terrible things about the way her brother was treated down in the dungeons—things that made her skin crawl _. But surely Father would not be cruel enough to...?_

Eruca kept to the wall. She wished she could have blended into it. She briefly remembered her uncle, and how he could vanish from sight with a spell. She wished she could have been able to cast the same kind of magic.

Eruca had nearly reached the stairs that led to the dungeons when she heard a shout. She stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding a wild tattoo in her chest.

"You! You there!" a man's voice called out from behind her. Eruca steeled herself and turned to face the guard. Several other soldiers were following him.

"That... is that the princess?"

Eruca's empty hand clutched at her robe. "I..." she uttered, "I... I was only trying to..."

"What are you doing here, at such an hour?" The guard's voice was cold, almost disdainful. Eruca was not surprised. Every soldier in this castle was a creature of her father's. "What on earth were you thinking, Your Highness?"

"Bring her to the king," another guard said. His uniform showed he was the highest-ranking soldier here. "He told us this could happen."

"He told you...?" Eruca said breathlessly as the first guard seized her by the arm. She took one helpless glance at the stairs as he led her away.

Eruca felt cold all over as they arrived at her father's study. Still, she swallowed her nervousness. _Ernst wouldn't have shown he was afraid_ , she thought. _I'm not doing anything wrong. I don't need to feel shameful._

As she walked inside, Eruca took in the appearance of the man sitting at the desk. The years had greyed the beard that ran along his jaw, and several streaks of silver were scattered amongst the black of his hair. As icy blue eyes rose to peer at her, Eruca did not look away. Eruca could count the people who could meet her father's gaze on one hand: there was Protea (she would never call her Mother in her head, no, perhaps she would allow her father to bend her will in the outside world, but not in the safety of her mind) and her long-lost uncle (although she wasn't too sure on this count—her memories of him were so misty, he could have been a phantom for all she knew). And Ernst _. Ernst isn't afraid of him._

King Victor sighed and buried his face into his hands before boring his eyes into hers again. "Daughter," he began, "I have been told you were found loitering about in the castle. At this late hour." Black eyebrows shot up above his eyes. "What in the world are you doing out of bed?"

"My brother—"

Victor slammed one hand on his desk. Eruca nearly staggered backward in fright, and she had to force herself to go still as stone to hide her startlement.

"Your brother is rotting in the dungeons, and for good reasons," the king said. "Why would you attempt to visit him?"

"Father," Eruca replied, voice nearly breaking in her throat, "how could you? All this talk of treason..."

"Do not presume to know better than me. Your brother—my _son_ , " he spat out the word, "was conspiring against my authority. And that, _girl_ , is the truth."

"He would never!" Eruca cried out. "The good of this country is all he wants! Please, Father, please! Let me see him! At least before— " Eruca could feel the sobs bubbling in her chest. She tried to squash them down, to no avail.

"Get out of my sight," her father growled. "I will let tonight pass on account of your young age, but the moment I find you wandering out of your chambers again..." He let the threat hang into the air. "Go!"

Though her eyes were stinging, Eruca let no tear roll down her cheeks. She turned her heel without another word and let herself be escorted back to her room. Only when she was alone did she drop on her bed, burying her tear-streaked face into the pillows.

* * *

Victor could feel the telltale signs of a headache coming on. _The little brat..._ The girl had always been mellower than her brother, refreshingly so. He should have seen this coming from a mile away, however.

She had always been so uncooperative when her brother was involved. He could still remember the one and only time he had to stoop to physical punishment to rein her into place. It had happened some time after his brother—Victor cursed his name thrice over in his mind—had disappeared. He had ordered the guards to gather all of _that man_ 's belongings to pile them up in the courtyard, and douse them in oil. The sight of the books and parchments and quills burning into the night had quieted the rage in his heart, if only so slightly, but then Ernst had irrupted into the courtyard, shouting and gesturing wildly. Victor could not quite remember his son's words, but his expression, that face contorted in fury and grief, still followed him to this day.

Ernst's sudden outburst had been too much. Victor had launched himself at the boy, his hands tightening around that white neck. The boy's anger had not even subsided; Victor remembered the fury in those eyes, the eyes of a woman he had loved. He had only stopped strangling Ernst when something small and blue had rammed into him. Only that surprise, that pure surprise of finding his daughter trying to assault him had led him to drop the boy. Before the woman—the children's nanny—and the soldiers managed to whisk his children from him, Victor had managed to land one blow to his daughter's face. Her cheek had stayed bruised for more than a month.

Victor mulled over this memory, the taste of it still bitter on his tongue. Servants and guards and even courtiers had seen his actions on that night—it had been unbecoming of a king. His mother had been similarly harsh with her children (more so with Heinrich, Victor recalled with a secret grin), but she had never punished them in front of an audience. Victor had thus followed her example and learned to quell his rage, but there had been some times where he had slipped into his old habits. Never with Eruca, however. She'd learned to curb her tongue after that one time.

His dark mood had not dissipated when he found his way back into his bedchambers. As always, Protea was sprawled on the bed, softly snoring. Victor felt his features soften at the sight of the woman. She rarely if never slept in her own apartments.

After changing into his night garments, Victor laid himself next to his wife. He could not help but bring a hand to her soft hair. She fluttered under his touch.

 _"Hmm,"_ she finally let out, "my love, where had you gone?"

Victor brushed a strand of hair out of her lovely face. "I had to work late. You know I am a busy man."

"You're angry." When he tensed beside her, she chuckled slightly. "I can feel every muscle in your body aching, my love. I can help you get rid of all that stress, wouldn't you like that?"

Victor grunted in response. "No, I must sleep. More work will find me tomorrow."

A plaintive moan escaped her lips. "That Ritual business claims so much of your time... when will you be back to me? I have my own needs as well." She ran a hand on his chest.

Victor brusquely turned away from her. Her words had only intensified the buzzing inside his head. "In less than a week, I hope. If all goes well." Anger rumbled inside his chest like a storm. Everything would go awry, he was certain of it. No one in the castle, save him, knew the terrible thing that had happened less than a week ago.

The Black Chronicle had disappeared.

Victor had rarely moved it from the secret drawer in his desk since that fateful day, thirteen years ago, when he had killed his brother. It had been one of his greatest pleasures back then to scoff at _that man_ for being unable to awaken to the powers of the White Book of Flux, but the truth was that Victor himself had been unable to perform anything with his own Chronicle. Out of sheer spite, he had left the old book untouched for all these years, until he had forced it into the hands of his daughter almost a month ago.

As Protea eased herself into sleep beside him, Victor silently gnawed on his worries. He had let no one know the location of the book. Who could have taken it? Victor knew he had enemies everywhere, ready to strike from the shadows. Ernst had only been the most visible one. _Who is it? And when will they attack?_ And of course, how could he complete the Ritual? _The best would be to continue as if nothing happened. I must not let show that I am wounded. Perhaps in time, my foe will make a mistake and step into the light._

Protea's breathing had become shallow, but Victor's was hoarser than ever. One face kept floating to his mind whenever the fear of his numerous, shadow-clad enemies seized him. One face kept him awake at night, wandering into his nightmares whenever he did find sleep.

It had been a cool late autumn night much like this one. Victor had been thrashing in his bed, unable to fall asleep. Nowadays, Protea would have soothed him with kisses and whispered words of love, but back then he had been alone, still reeling from the death of his first wife five years earlier. Victor had begun to feel a doziness tugging on his thoughts when something had grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back. His eyes had flared wide open to find the edge of a blade caressing his throat.

"Hello, dear brother," his assailant had said, so softly. The voice had been familiar, but even when his vision cleared, Victor hadn't been able to recognize the man's face at first. And what a nightmarish face it was! The hair was a wild mess of grey, and caked with dirt and _was that blood?!_ The eyes were bright red and sunken into a face as white as death. But worst of all was that smile—those bloodless lips curling savagely, the yellow teeth bared at him like a wild animal's, that foul breath invading his nostrils... Victor had tried to scream, but the man pressed down his knife and emitted a low tutting sound.

"None of that, Your Majesty." God, that stench made Victor want to retch. "One scream and it's all over for you."

"You would," Victor panted, "you would never get out of here alive if you laid a hand on me."

"On the contrary," the man said, his smile growing wider, "I've devised more than a hundred ways to kill you and get away with it. It became something of a hobby for me."

Victor squinted his eyes, finally remembering the man's first words. "Wait, _you're—!_ "

"Me!" _That man_ seemed on the verge of laughing out loud. "Didn't you recognize me? You see me on a daily basis in this time period, after all. Personally, on the course of meeting several iterations of you I've grown to know parts of your personality I had never been privy to before." He looked at Victor as though he were some kind of exotic beast who had never been seen by human eyes before. "Some of your deaths were entertaining, I might say."

"You... _you bastard!_ "

"Shhh, keep your voice down. I'm not here to kill you. Only to impart some words of wisdom." His brother's expression had abruptly gone serious then. "Keep your filthy hands away from the children. The moment you hurt one hair on their head, I will know. And wherever you go, I will find you. _And then you will dearly wish that I had killed you today."_ Victor felt the knife breaking into his skin. "Remember, brother. Wherever you go, I _will_ find you."

Victor's response had died in his throat when he had found himself falling into a sudden bout of unconsciousness afterwards. Only after waking up did he realize that his brother had cast a sleeping spell on him. The castle had been in an uproar for the better part of a year before he had to come to the realization that his brother had truly escaped from his grasp, taking the White Chronicle along with him. Six years had passed since then and Victor still broke into a sweat whenever he thought of that night, the night where his life had begun to unravel in front of his eyes, its broken pieces slipping from his fingers like specks of sand.

Protea sighed in her sleep. When daylight broke, the day afterwards, and she buried her face in the crook of his arm with a purred "good morning", Victor had not slept a wink.

* * *

The fateful day when they would sacrifice Ernst finally came, and still there was no sight of the Black Chronicle. Victor went about his daily routine, coolly hiding his growing distress. Periodically, guards came to his study to assure him Eruca had not left her chambers. He didn't need for her to attempt another pointless escape.

When darkness came, he refused Protea's advances and set out for the Royal Hall, clutching at the violet gem hanging from the silver chain around his neck. A few knights served as a solemn escort, and soon he was at the Hall's secret entrance, somewhere in the castle's basement library. Not long after, they were met by another group of soldiers accompanying his daughter.

"Father!" Eruca cried out, rushing toward him. He stopped her with a glare.

 _"Don't_ , Eruca," he warned. "I am not in the mood to hear your begging."

"But..."

"Can you keep quiet, for once in your life?!" Victor snapped. The girl shrunk down, pacified. Victor advanced to the bookshelf hiding the Royal Hall's entrance. The ancient doorway creaked open with a terrible noise that left goosebumps on his skin. The air that came out smelled of decay and staleness; Victor scrunched up his nose when he set one foot inside.

His gaze swooped around the unfamiliar scenery—the great columns of stone, the vines growing on the walls, the crystals of Mana offering a faint light to the travellers. It truly was breathtaking. But Victor had a task to accomplish and no energy to spare for such foolish contemplation. He turned to address his guards.

"Bring me my son."

There was a small gasp from Eruca, but Victor ignored her. Four soldiers offered a salute before they disappeared back into the castle. Not long after, they returned, two of them carrying the inert, corpse-like form of his son.

"Oh god, _Ernst!"_ This time, the soldiers had to hold Eruca to keep her from rushing to her brother's side. "Ernst, _ERNST!_ " How she fought to get out of their grasp. "No, _NO!_ " She sobbed, she begged, she thrashed in their arms. Victor looked down on her, disgusted by her lack of composure.

"Keep her here until I have need for her," he told the soldiers who were holding her down. She answered his order with even louder screams. The sound of it seemed to wake Ernst up; his bloodied, battered face searched for her own, and his lips had started to move.

"It's time," Victor said. He motioned over to the soldiers who were carrying Ernst, and then began to make his way toward the inner chamber, where so long ago he had fulfilled his duty and killed his brother.

"No, _NOOO_ _!_ " Eruca shrieked from behind. "Don't _, don't! ERNST!_ "

Victor thanked whatever god there might exist when her screams finally faded into the distance. When they arrived at the inner chamber, the only noises that filled in the air were their footsteps and Ernst's occasional moans. Victor took his place in front of the largest of the Mana crystals. His hand went to clench the Etherion again.

A whisk of fresh air on his cheek made him suddenly look behind him. The guards stared at him, confused, while Ernst continued to pant. The boy slowly lifted his head; it seemed it took every last ounce of his strength to do so.

"S-So," he croaked, "you're going through with this?" Victor could sense the grin in the boy's tone. "Y-You know it's not going to w-work unless you find a w-way to mimic the White Chronicle p-powers..."

"Silence!" Victor commanded.

It was hard to tell if the sound that left Ernst's parched lips was a chuckle or not. "Y-You're wasting a-all this energy for nothing..." Victor could spy a smile on his son's face. "W-Well, as long as E-Eruca—as long as she c-can—"  His voice wheezed out, and Victor could see that his eyes had rolled back into their sockets. Ernst was out cold again.

Disgust crawled under Victor's skin. The boy was right, damn him! The king was boiling with mouting rage, mulling over his son's words, when he heard behind him the soft sounds of someone's approaching footsteps. Victor spun on his heel to find that a cloaked man had suddenly appeared, standing between him and the great violet crystal. A simple grin illuminated what could be seen of his features. The guards shouted curses as a dumbstruck Victor just stared at the stranger. There was a black tome in one of his hands.

Victor hissed in shock. "That book!"

The stranger lifted his empty hand to Victor's face. "Sleep," was all he said, and Victor tumbled to the ground.

When Victor came to his senses, it was to find himself with a explosive headache. He managed to push himself off the ground, nearly fainting again in the process. As he held himself on shaky arms, Victor caught sight of a man nonchalantly crouching down in front of him. Swearing under his breath, the king stumbled backward, trying to crawl away from the stranger. Something slammed in his back, forcing the air out of his lungs and pining him to his spot.

"Guards," Victor wheezed. He looked everywhere—yes, in the dim lights of the crystals he could make out their silhouettes. They stood as still as statues, their gazes fixed on him. "Guards, to me! To me!"

"I'm afraid they won't help you," the stranger said. His voice was familiar— _too_ familiar, Victor realized with a jolt.

Before Victor could utter the name of his aggressor, the man smashed his face with a kick. There was a white-hot pain, and a sickening crunch as the soft cartilage of his nose broke under the blow. Victor heard a whimper—and was horrified to find out the sound had come out of his own lips.

"H-Heinrich, Heinrich," Victor heaved. "You came back. You... you bastard..."

"I promised you, didn't I?" _That man_ stooped to Victor's level. He was paler and older than before, but otherwise the face—and the _grin_ —that had fuelled his nightmares for the past few years were the same. "That I'd come back if you ever hurt one of the children?" He nodded in the direction of the great Mana crystal. There, Ernst was lying in a crumpled heap.

"Is he—is he dead?"

"What?" Victor's brother was still smiling, but his voice held no humour. "Do you truly believe I would let him die? I'm not you. I'm here to protect him."

Victor's head was swimming. Blood was pouring out of his nose. "W-Why have you always been so _obsessed_ with my children? Do you want to steal my legacy so much?" _It's your own damn fault for not having one... if only you had gotten married when I ordered you to..._

Heinrich stopped smiling. "What are you going on about? I'm not stealing anything. No matter what your daughter says." The last sentence had been said so softly Victor could not be sure he'd heard it correctly.

Heinrich looked at Ernst again. "He's like me. He's always been. I knew there was a reason why he stuck to me so closely when he was a child. Perhaps he could sense it. The fate that would make us the same, the fate that would make us Sacrifices." He was grinning again, and this time his tone was feverish. "There's only one thing left for us to do. We were both chosen, might as well do it together."

"What are you raving about? Y-You're _mad_."

Heinrich made a low humming sound as he seemed to consider Victor's words. "I wouldn't say that. I've never seen so clearly in my life." He shoved the dark book in Victor's face. "And now that I have all the necessary tools to accomplish what I need to do..."

"The Black Chronicle... you were the one..."

"I _was_ ," Heinrich completed, flipping the book open. "You surprised me, brother. This book offers a lot of possibilities as how to treat your enemies, yet I've never seen you use any of them. Were you never aware of its full potential?"

"My duties," Victor managed to snarl, "I did only my duties."

"That's what they want you to do. The two guides, I mean. Don't ask questions. Don't pry into the past." Heinrich chuckled. "I found out the reason why we are all in this mess in the first place. Did you ever know it was because of the Black Chronicle? No? Well, neither did I, nor did several of our predecessors. It took me some time, however, to realize just why the guides failed to mention this particular bit of history. Why wouldn't they, if they are so keen on keeping us from repeating the mistakes of the past?"

Heinrich slammed the book shut. Specks of dust flew into Victor's face, sending him into a coughing fit. "Did you realize just yet, brother?" Heinrich said. "They did not want us to know what a powerful tool the Black Chronicle is. But now... _I_ know."

A purple glow emanated from the old book as Heinrich lifted it above his head. Immediately, Victor could feel the ground vibrating under the coordinated footsteps of the guards as they marched toward the two of them.

"Guards!" Victor called out again. "Help me! Quickly, come to me!"

The words had barely left his mouth when the soldiers stopped. Now that they were closer, Victor could see their faces—they were oddly devoid of any expression.

"W-What on earth is this?" Victor said, mouth going dry.

"Just a little something I've figured out while experimenting with the Chronicle, a few timelines past," replied Heinrich. "As I said, I could do anything to you and they would not lift a finger to protect you."

"T-They're—"

"They're _dead,_ Victor."

Victor shook his head. "That's... no!" He tried to get to his feet, but only collapsed again. "No, _no!_ " He wanted to summon his magic, but the flow of Mana inside him did not respond to his call. He dragged himself across the ground. "Get away from me! _Get away!_ "

Heinrich walked calmly alongside him. With one last desperate howl, Victor found the knife he had hidden under his coat, throwing it at his brother's face. Victor saw it leaving a small cut on the man's cheekbone, and he had the time to utter but one groan when Heinrich's hands went to his neck. There was a horrifying, whirring sound—one that Victor could not even begin to understand—and Heinrich was squeezing and squeezing, the metal of his hands crushing Victor's windpipe, the claws piecing the skin. With a crunch that was oh-so-satisfactory to Heiss' ears, Victor died, the final sight etched into his eyes reflecting the nightmares that had plagued him for so many years.

* * *

Eruca didn't exactly know how long she fought against her captors. All she was aware of now was that she was exhausted beyond measure. She let herself collapse after a while, her legs growing too weak to support her weight anymore. She had stopped crying. For the last few minutes (or had it been the last few hours?), her sight had been fixed on her hands. They lay in her lap, and had not stopped trembling ever since she had been forced into the Royal Hall.

The guards who stayed with her offered no word of comfort. They acted as if she were invisible. Eruca herself was starting to believe the same. _Perhaps if I wait long enough, I will wake up,_ she thought. _Perhaps if I wait long enough I will find that this is nothing but a nightmare._

A noise came from up ahead, startling her. The guards beside her grew tense as the sound became louder. Eruca rose on shaky feet. Finally, she could make out the likeliness of a man under the faint violet lights.

"Father," Eruca began.

The man—it _was_ Eruca's father—came to a stop. The top portion of his face was obscured by the hood of his cloak. In his hands, he carried a large black book. Eruca's heart constricted in her chest. _The Black Chronicle._

"Daughter..." Victor's voice was guttural, more so than Eruca remembered. "Daughter... come..."

"Father? I-Is something wrong? You..."

"Come... quickly... _alone_..."

"Your Majesty, shouldn't we follow as well?" one of the guards asked, but the king shushed him with a hoarse sound.

"No... daughter... come alone... _come_..."

The guards exchanged a few worried words, but otherwise they could not go against the king's orders. Eruca stepped forward. Her father did not wait for her to be at his side before he took off; his gait was awkward, each footstep stiff and unnatural.

Other than the sound of their footfalls on the stone and gravel, Eruca could only hear the blood pounding in her ears. Her heart raced even faster as they set foot inside the chamber where the Ritual usually took place— _would now take place_. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw a boy on his knees, his head nodding forward, his face obscured by hair so dirty she could barely make out the colour. He was firmly held into place by two guards.

 _"Ernst!_ " she cried out. She would have moved forward, but her father's hand appeared out of nowhere, grabbing her by the arm. The fingers were so tightly curled around her wrist she was sure it would leave a bruise.

 _"No..."_ he simply said. He thrust the Black Chronicle into her hands, and Eruca's throat tightened. "Do it... _finish_ it..."

Tears now streaming down her face, Eruca opened her mouth to protest, but then a blinding violet light flared in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut for a split second before realizing the light was coming out of her hands. _The Black Chronicle! It's reacting! What have I done?_

Ernst started to cough, the sounds intersected with pained groans. Under Eruca's horrified stare, his breathing became laboured, his body began to shake.

 _No! Stop it!_ She would have thrown the book away, but her father had now grabbed both of her hands from behind her, forcing her to be still. She noticed that the violet gem that once hung from his neck was not there. She gave him a wordless look of horror. He was standing too close to her! He would get hit by the rebound of the spell if he did not move away!

Water filled her eyes, blurring everything from her view. The tears sprung from both terror and pain. Her head felt ready to split in two from the agony.

The light and the pain grew in intensity, and Eruca found herself screaming. The guards, her father—all stood motionless, silently watching Ernst as he tossed in their grasp. And—Eruca could not be sure with all the tears clouding her eyesight— _her brother was disappearing,_ the outlines of his body dimming as if an invisible force was willing him out of existence.

Eruca felt another _"no!"_ being wrenched out of her. Her legs buckled. She was falling—

—and then, a figure caught her, their hands slithering around her face. The pain and the tears made it impossible for Eruca to tell who it was—no, it wasn't even human, it was some sort of nightmarish beast, with teeth flaring at her and red eyes burning into her own.

 _"Don't interfere,"_ the creature murmured, its voice gravelly and hoarse, the sound of it sending chills to her spine. Eruca cried out as its claws dug into her face. _"Don't chase us_. _Forget about the boy_. _Forget everything."_

There was nothing Eruca could do but scream. When the pale, bloodless face faded out in the darkness, its hands releasing her, she arched backward. She slipped out of consciousness before she could even touch the ground.

* * *

The smell of grass and flowers was the first thing Ernst registered. He had floated in and out of consciousness while his nameless benefactor had carried him out of the Royal Hall, making it impossible for him to know where—and with whom—he currently was. But here the ground was softened by a pillow of verdure. He could only be outside of the capital's walls.

Ernst ignored the pain searing from every inch of his body as he tried to find his unknown companion. The old man was sitting with his back facing him; he appeared to be eating. From here, Ernst could see he had thick, wild grey hair. Ernst groaned as he tried to move, bringing the man's attention to him.

"Ernst," the old man said. His face was still obscured as he moved to his side. "Ernst, calm down. You're still very weak..."

"W-Who are you? What did you do to me?"

"What did I do to? Why, I saved you, my boy! Your father was going to kill you!"

Ernst knew that voice. "No, it can't be... Uncle... Uncle Heinrich?"

The old man squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "I told you I would come back if you ever needed it. I promised you."

Ernst wrenched himself out of the man's grasp, wincing. "Did you now? Could have fooled me..."

A tense silence followed. "I did all I could," Uncle said, his voice surprisingly threatening. "If only your father hadn't put you through this whole mess..."

"As far as I know, the only reason why he did was because he _had_ to," Ernst countered. He fought to keep his voice from wavering. "He didn't have a _choice_." _I'm stuck like this because..._

"A choice?!" Uncle shouted. "He always had a choice! And he chose the easy path! And after all this time I've spent trying to protect you—"

"Protect us? _Protect us?!_ Where—how—when did you protect us?!" _Where were you, all these years where there was only the two of us?_ All these years of toil, sweat and tears spent trying to escape their father's wrath and build something out of their lives... "Dammit, to think I kept believing you would never leave us out of your own will! I always thought Father had killed you without us knowing. Father—hell, even Eruca thought I was delusional! I didn't believe them! I didn't _want_ to believe them! Why else wouldn't you try to contact us? Why else wouldn't you come back?!"

"Ernst..."

"Father was telling the truth, then! You left us! You ran!"

"No!" Uncle seized Ernst's shoulders. This time, Ernst could see his face—a twisted, pale copy of the face of the man who had all but raised him. "Don't you dare say that to me, don't you dare!"

"Let me go!" The man's hold tightened around Ernst, forcing a grunt of pain out of him. "What about my sister?" Ernst cried out. "Where is she? Why didn't you get her out?"

"Your sister," Uncle hissed. "Why is it always about her? What does she have that is so important to you?"

"She's my sister! And Father will—"

"Your father is dead, Ernst. I killed him."

It was as though Uncle had punched him in the guts. "What? You... _what have you done?!_ "

"What I should have done years ago, before all of this could have come to pass."

Ernst shook his head. No, _no_ , this was not the man he had once known. "Let me go! I said let me go, dammit!" Uncle released his shoulders, but Ernst still felt the red eyes trained on him as he rose on shaky feet. "I have to go back. I have to go back and find my sister."

"She is safe, safer than she has ever been, my boy. You have something else in mind. What are you truly thinking, Ernst?"

Ernst faced his uncle, head swimming in pain. He forced himself to look into the man's eyes with a steady gaze. "I'm going back to her. And we'll finish the Ritual and give the world another ten years." _It's the only way._ With a twinge to the heart, his mind added. _It's the best way. Me rather than Eruca. I should have thought of it sooner._

 _"No."_ Uncle's features showed no anger, no hint of menace. "The Ritual will never be completed."

Ernst gnashed his teeth together. "Then the world—"

"Then the world will crumble around us. They've known about it for hundreds of years. They had it coming." A smile graced Uncle's gaunt features. "Only the two of us will remain. Won't it be a beautiful irony? The two forsaken, being the last to walk the face of this continent?"

"That's _—that's_ madness! Uncle, what the hell are you talking about?"

"The systematic murder of our family has only prolonged something that should have died ages ago. The end is coming. I'm just ensuring the two of us will live until it is here." He moved closer to Ernst, his smile frighteningly genuine. "We'll watch them tear each other apart until they realize it's too late. Until they realize they should have listened to us and acted sooner."

Ernst braced himself as though his uncle was going to strike him. "You're insane. You have no idea of just how crazy you sound right now."

Uncle's grin dissipated. "Your father said the same thing. I knew your sister would end up parroting his words like the stupid little chit she is, but I would have thought better of you."

 _"Chit?_ You bastard, how dare you?" Rage rippled across Ernst's skin. "I swear that if you're thinking of hurting her, I'll—"

Uncle frowned. The expression was oddly normal on his freakish face. "I wished you could have felt otherwise. I didn't want to do this..."

Ernst's heart gave a jolt of fright. "What? What do you mean?"

Uncle had taken from his bag an ancient looking book _—The Black Chronicle!_ Ernst realized—and his fingers were now gently travelling across the dark violet pages.

"How did you get hold of this?" Ernst snarled. "Did you steal it from my father's corpse?"

"Such a powerful weapon was never worthy of him," was Uncle's soft answer. "Frankly, considering he was ready to complete the Ritual with a Sacrifice who hadn't gone through the awakening, it should never have found its way into his hands in the first place." Ernst's brows furrowed in confusion at the man's words. He was about to counter with a harsh reply, but then the tips of his fingers started to tingle, catching him off guard. The sudden numbness proceeded across his limbs, making them feel heavier than lead. Ernst managed to shoot his uncle a look of fury and horror before his eyesight also began to give way.

"You..." Ernst went to one knee, grey spots darkening his sight. "What are you doing to me...?" The sudden fatigue pulled him toward the ground as surely as gravity did. It was impossibly painful to keep his head steady.

"I told you, I'm here to save you. Even from yourself," Uncle said, crouching to Ernst's side. His grin was eerie—both tender and inexplicably terrifying. "I'm doing this all for your sake."

His features became a blur, and with a curse Ernst collapsed, the darkness overtaking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, a big thanks to my beta, ishouldliveinsalt, who as always works tirelessly so that this story can be better. A big fat thank you to quicksilver-ink, whose ideas also helped a whole lot too! And of course, thank you, dear readers! We're more than three-quarters of the way into this beast!


	19. Chapter 17 - The World's Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heiss was no stranger to torture. His skin bore the marks his stubborn silence had earned him, an eternity ago, when he had been interrogated by his old comrades of the city guard in Skalla. Later on, his time under Hugo's employ had led him to develop an arsenal of techniques to wrench out the truth from the lips of the General's enemies. Still, Heiss could never manage to replicate the enthusiasm he'd seen in the darkness of the Skallan and Alistellian dungeons.

That is, until Heiss found himself one night in his brother's study, with the thin thread of the man's life resting in his sole hands.

He'd thought to pay his brother a little visit some weeks after Ernst's first death. After erupting in Victor's bedchambers in the middle of the night, Heiss had dragged his brother's gagged and bound form out of bed and thrown him in his study without anyone knowing the better. Victor's muffled screams had been what had alerted the guards that something odd was happening. Heiss had heard them quickly gathering outside; their voices rose from shocked mutters to horrified shouts as they understood just what was happening.

At that point, Heiss had removed Victor's gag. He hadn't been able to suppress a grin when the king began to call out for his guards, unwittingly falling into Heiss' trap.

"Don't come inside!" The pain made the king's voice shake, but otherwise Victor's words were clear. "If you get in, he's going to kill me!"

"Not necessarily," said Heiss. "I need your help to find something."

"S-Something?"

From behind the door, the noises were getting louder; more and more guards seemed to have come. Heiss could hear them shouting threats. Victor could too, and so he stiffened in his seat.

"You'll... you'll never get out of here. You'll never—" With great effort, Victor craned his neck, raising to Heiss a face covered in a disgusting film of perspiration and blood.

"I have heard this a thousand times before," Heiss interrupted him. He seized one of Victor's hands. The king was too weak to react. Even so, he never noticed that the gesture was gentler that it needed to be. His brows creased in confusion.

"W-What are you doing?"

"The Black Chronicle," Heiss continued, never losing the soft edge in his voice. "I'm going to stop hurting you if you just tell me where you hide it."

A hint of Victor's characteristic anger managed to break through the shroud of pain. "Y-You expect me to just tell you? How have you even heard of it?"

Heiss sighed. He moved the tip of his knife under one of Victor's nails and—

The king screamed. Blood gushed out of the wound. Heiss slightly winced; this was why a part of him had hoped his brother would talk. This business could be so messy.

The guards pounded on the door. Heiss wondered how long it would take them to break into the study. _No matter_ , he thought. _I have all the time in the world_.

Tears were mingling with the sweat and blood on Victor's cheeks. Heiss cusped his brother's face with one hand, the sharp edges of his Gauntlet drawing deep red ridges on the man's chin. Victor whimpered—the sound nearly made Heiss laugh out loud.

"See?" he said. "This wouldn't have happened if you had just listened to me." Heiss gestured to the door, behind which they could still hear the guards slamming against the hard wood. "Also, keep in mind: if they get in here, I _will_ certainly kill you."

Victor shouted for them to stop. Heiss smiled.

"There, wasn't that easy? Now, you just have to tell me where you keep the Chronicle."

"You... just who are you?" Victor's unfocused eyes were starting to widen in recognition.

"Who I am isn't important," Heiss replied, his blade slithering to another of Victor's fingers.

"No... no, no, _no!_ "

"There's no time for games, Victor... Now, tell me. _Where is it?_ "

 _"The desk!_ Third drawer. T-there's a-a secret—"

Without saying a word, Heiss stalked across the room, dragging the chair behind him. While he thrust one hand into the third drawer, breaking through the plank of wood hiding the secret compartment with disturbing ease, his other Gauntlet came to rest on the top of his brother's head. The fingers constricted around Victor's skull, and rivulets of blood scattered through his black hair. Victor's screams flared in Heiss' ears.

"You weren't lying," Heiss said. He turned to give his brother a bewildered grin, raising the black-clad book—the Black Chronicle—in front of Victor's face. "I almost expected you to pull a fast one on me. I believe this means I must fulfil my end of the bargain, then."

Victor was in no state to say anything coherent. His eyes were glassy with fear, and the sounds that left his lips were part sobs, part moans of pain.

"But that would mean breaking two promises I made several years ago. One to a boy whom I pledged to protect. And another to a man whom I've sworn to kill if any harm was to come to said boy."

Victor choked as the realization dawned on him. It was his last breath; Heiss' Gauntlet closed on his throat, breaking the king's neck in one swift move.

* * *

In a flash of violet light, Heiss landed on the grey slate, the air under him softly cushioning his fall.

"Heinrich, what have you done?" said Lippti.

Heiss wiped the dust off his cloak. Patches of blood shone on the dark fabric.

"You stole the Black Chronicle," Teo's voice followed his sister's. "Do you have any idea of what you have just done?"

Heiss checked the contents of his bag. The sight of the two Chronicles, side by side after so many years apart, brought a smile to his face. He began to make his way up the stairs that led out of Historia.

"Heinrich!" Lippti sounded desperate. "What are you doing? What are you planning?"

Heiss' tattered cloak billowed behind him as he climbed the ancient steps. The stench of Victor's fear was all over it; Heiss couldn't wait until he could change into something cleaner.

"Heiss! Listen to us! You have no idea what you've just brought upon yourself!"

"Heinrich! Listen to us! We are not your enemies! We are trying to help you!"

Heiss gathered his breath before raising his hands to the gate. Exhaling, he pushed the great stone door, welcoming the bright lights of the real world with a grin.

* * *

The idea had come to Heiss in the long recovery that had followed the operation that had grafted the Gauntlets to his arms. The only one who had thought of visiting him then was Professor Rowan. Whenever he came to check and adjust the prothestics, the Thaumatech engineer tended to ramble.

"Perhaps with a success story such as yours, it will be easier to convince General Hugo just how important this technology is," Rowan had said, once. He'd been watching Heiss flexing the mechanical fingers of his Gauntlet with an interest that was almost childlike.

"What do you mean?" Heiss had replied.

"Well, the man wants our division to direct all our attentions to the military. He believes anything on the civil side of things to be a waste of precious resources."

"The Thaumatech Division _does_ belong to the military," Heiss reminded him.

"I know, I know," Rowan said. "Still, using that expertise for the development of weapons only is..." His voice trailed off, and he appeared thoughtful.

Heiss frowned. "Alistel has been using Thaumachines to wage war for generations. Why stop any new development?"

"I'm not opposed to this usage as much as—well, perhaps in terms of ethics, I _am_ —but the problem isn't there."

"Then, where is it?"

The professor drummed his fingers on the arms of his mechanized wheelchair. "Are you well-versed in history, Mr. Heiss?" When Heiss gave a nod, Rowan continued. "We Alistellians are not the pioneers of Thaumatechnology our leaders love to pretend we are. We are only mimicking the scholars of the Old Empire. We've replicated their achievements on some scale, but there is a long way to go before we can even pretend to be the heirs to their legacy."

Heiss watched the professor with a cautious gaze before the man spoke again.

"The Thaumachines that the Prophet and his followers used some seventy years ago were far more dangerous than the average citizen realizes. They were unpredictable, fickle... and prone to claim Alistellian lives with every use. The Imperials developed weapons, true, but they could at least manage to have some hold over the power source of their Thaumachines. We've yet to establish that sort of control. We know very little about their methods, but from my research I've learned that the Imperials used devices that can call on the power to manipulate Mana—the power of Flux, they called it."

"Flux?" Heiss repeated. His face was a mask of cool disinterest.

"Strange name, I know. But yes, until we find a way to replicate the process leading to the creation of these devices of Flux, I won't let the development of Thaumachines for the purpose of war go any further. I won't have our own weapons endangering the lives of our soldiers and citizens."

The man had taken off shortly after, leaving Heiss alone to his dark musings. _The Old Empire._ _Devices of Flux. Mana._ His mind had mulled over these words, his thoughts occasionally joined by memories of things the twins had once said to him. _In the old days, the Emperors and Empresses allowed the creation of many objects capable of manipulating the flow of Mana,_ Teo had told him. _Only one was so powerful it was only granted to His or Her Majesty's closest confidant_ , his sister had added.

Remembering those words had made Heiss grind his teeth together. _Powerful, they called it. And yet, they left such a tool in my brother's hands?_

Piece by piece, the realization had been building in his mind. The twins had kept this a secret from him and the major part of the Sacrifices who had come before him... because they clearly feared what they would do with this knowledge. But they had slipped up, and divulged this important piece of information to him. _The Black Chronicle did not have the same limitations as the White Chronicle_ , they had said. Never had a Caster referred to any power beyond what they needed to accomplish their tasks. It had struck Heiss that the guides possibly never disclosed just how powerful the old tome really was to its bearers. _But_ I _know_. _Because those two loathsome things made a mistake and told me._

He had smiled in the darkness of his bedchambers. His plan to infiltrate Castle Granorg and steal the Chronicle from Victor had begun to form not long afterwards.

* * *

Everything had gone without a hitch. Once Heiss was back within Alistel, with the Black Chronicle (and a new, cleaner cloak) safely in his hands, all that remained for him was to unlock the book's secrets and discover once more its forgotten powers.

_(And perhaps then he would finally be able to save—)_

The twins had said the book focused the abilities of the people of his bloodline. Heiss knew the Black Chronicle could shatter the link between a soul and its body; soon, he began to wonder if there was a way to do such a thing even without the Mana imbued in the very heart of the Royal Hall strengthening the spellcaster's capacities. And of course, there was the issue of just where the Mana released by the soulless body was escaping. Could there be a way to redirect it back to the bearer of the Black Chronicle?

He discovered the answer to his query by remembering an event which significance had eluded him for several decades. As much as Heiss wanted to forget, the days he'd spent slaving away in the depths of the copper mine in Cygnus rarely left the edge of his memories. He could recall with almost perfect clarity one of the nights when he had lain among his fellow slaves, that night when he had been observing a desert spider as it twitched in his hand. Its life had been but a string stretched taut within his palm... and when that string had snapped, the creature had collapsed into sand. How desperately he had tried to reproduce that feat afterwards!

But with the Black Chronicle in his hands, the deed became laughably easy. Heiss understood now that he had unwillingly called on the power of Flux back then, in the same capacity his brother had done the day he had drawn Heinrich's soul out of his body. And so, what had once needed an excruciating amount of energy and concentration now could be done with the snap of a finger.

Heiss first practised this new ability on the flowers that brightened the drab greys of his office. He'd felt life had pulsating from under his fingertips as he ran a hand across their colourful display; it had been so easy to drag this vigour back to him, back to his maimed soul. In the beginning, the Mana rushing to his body left him shaking, the energy rippling through his flesh like lightning. However, as his body got more accustomed to this prickling, this _burning_ even, Heiss realised he was starting to feel its absence keenly. The Mana he consumed seemed to heat the blood in his veins, bringing warmth and comfort to muscles weakened by years of toil and fighting. He could sense it tirelessly working to soothe ancient pains, alleviating the oldest of wounds and smoothing over the deepest of scars. More and more, Heiss began to yearn for this feeling, this sudden surge of strength, like a man stuck in the desert would ache for water.

Soon, spiders and flowers weren't enough anymore.

* * *

The rush of energy that burst through Heiss when he devoured Victor's soul was nothing like he had ever experienced. The life suddenly flaring within him knocked him off his feet, leaving him shivering on the ground. Nothing had happened when he had snatched the lives of the guards accompanying his brother. Was it because the half-soul within Victor was kin with the mangled thing inside of Heiss' own body? _Is that what it feels to be whole?_ Laughter bubbled out of his mouth. He could almost believe that he had never lived most of his adult life torn in half. It was as sweet and intoxicating as rain in the desert. _Oh god, did I truly go for so long without ever feeling this completeness?_

His body sang, each speck of his being drunk with power. Frightening Eruca into submissiveness, muddling the evidence behind Victor's death, spiriting a half-dead Ernst out of the castle... he accomplished each task with a grin, exultation bursting from every pore of his skin.

Only when Ernst wake up did Heiss encounter a snag.

"The systematic murder of our family has only prolonged something that should have died ages ago," Heiss told the boy, his hands shaking with emotion. "The end is coming. I'm just ensuring the two of us will live until it is here." Ernst just continued to blink at him with a dim expression. "We'll watch them tear each other apart until they realize it's too late. Until they realize they should have listened to us and acted sooner."

Ernst did not understand. The boy shouted, ready to strike in anger. Heiss just stared at him, cold fear slowly replacing the warmth of victory and life in his veins. _Victor changed him. Victor made him meek. Victor took him away from me._

"How did you get hold of this?" Ernst finally said. He had been looking at the Black Chronicle in Heiss' hands. His words had come out in a low growl. "Did you steal it from my father's corpse?"

Heiss shook his head. _No... he doesn't understand. Victor's taint is all over him._ Eruca was beyond his control now. She had completely become a creature of her father's. _But I can't let her brother suffer the same fate._ He couldn't accept that Ernst could not be saved.

"I told you, I'm here to save you," Heiss whispered. _You're leaving me no choice._ "Even from yourself." Violet light flickered out of Heiss' hand, and the Black Chronicle swirled around him, pulsating with a dark glow. "I'm doing this all for your sake."

Ernst managed to shoot him one last look of pure hatred before his head hit the ground.

* * *

Heiss truly wished he could have done otherwise. This power over memory had been unexpected, truly, and so unappealing in its complexities at first.

 _What is a soul?_ he had asked himself one day, two weeks before he rescued Ernst and killed Victor using the powers the Black Chronicle had put at his disposition. _What is it to the body?_

Heiss' soul had been separated from its flesh container for more than thirty years. Yet, his memories were still his and not Victor's. _Memories must be engraved somewhere in the body, then._ The soul must have been what allowed a human being to read the recollections imprinted in their consciousness. _If this is the case, by manipulating one's soul it must be possible to—_

Heiss had immediately gone to work to test his theory.

His first subjects were servants of Castle Alistel. Soon, the secretaries and personal assistants who encountered him in the corridors of the castle watched him pass by without a glint of recognition lighting up their eyes, their faces instead scrounging up in confusion. The next step had been learning to implant new memories. A nurse down in the medical department one day woke with all of his knowledge of medicine replaced with facts about entomology and botany. A soldier found herself believing she had been born in Granorg and went to her superior, asking him to try her as a possible spy. The adjutant of General Hugo was fired after he'd gone to a meeting and asked who was the stranger daring to pretend he was the Prophet's Voice. These incidents had gone unexplained, so strange they were. Heiss had been pleased.

Before attempting this on Ernst, however, Heiss had thought it more prudent to try this new technique on someone else. Someone who would be a little more useful in the long run than mere secretaries and nurses.

Without Heiss to help him, Samra, the Satyros ambassador, had been captured by Hugo's men. A few days before Heiss set out for Granorg, Hugo had asked for him. As he entered the General's office, Heiss had noted the lines of worry marring the General's brow.

"The prisoner has not given in yet," Hugo had said to Heiss. "I must admire his spirit. Not a lot of men would have remained silent under the same circumstances."

"Ah, so you want me to find the location of the Celestian capital, then?" Heiss had asked in response. "Since our friend the ambassador is clearly not going to tell us."

Hugo scowled. "Send all of your people to do it if you must. This has gone on long enough. With every passing day the Satyros leaders mock us a little more."

Heiss for one knew where Celestia was, having learned its position from a preceding timeline where he had hounded Samra about it before setting Hugo's men on him. "I'll see what I can do, General." He glanced over at the taller man. "Although, there's one thing that still strikes me as odd about this so-called ambassador, personnally."

"What do you mean? Did something escape my notice?"

"His sword," Heiss replied. "He has a rather strong attachment to it, doesn't he? Do you find this a bit strange?"

"It might be a bizarre custom," Hugo grumbled. "Who knows with these beasts?"

"I believe the blade itself is not what it seems," Heiss said, injecting a bit of forcefulness into his voice. He hoped the General would take the hint. "Perhaps you should have your scholars look into it? Who knows what sort of weapons the Celestians might have developed behind our backs?"

The General had looked at him strangely then, frowning in suspicion. His wariness hadn't saved him, however, when Heiss whisked the Black Chronicle out of his bag. The black-clad book had started to hover in Heiss' hands, and Hugo's eyes had gone empty, dark and bottomless like two shards of onyx. The false images had then begun to seep through Hugo's mind. The prisoner's will had been broken by the torture, and he had told his captors of Celestia's real position. The prisoner had asked and asked for his sword, hinting to the astonishing potential of the blade he carried. The prisoner had admitted that he had come to find a way to destroy the very heart of Alistel: the Thaumachines that had once saved them from the tyranny of Granorg. Hugo had kept his vacant look as the new memories emerged in his brain; they supplanted their older counterparts, recreating an entire new reality within the man's consciousness.

When Heiss finally put the Black Chronicle back into his bag, Hugo had gone back to his old self without ever suspecting something. With a dismissive hand he excused Heiss out of his office, his face reverting to its usual mask of indifference. Heiss had watched him carefully the following weeks. To his satisfaction, the false memories had stuck, making his experiment a success.

The day before Heiss set out for Granorg, Samra was executed as an enemy spy, Hugo having drained every fragment of useful information he could have out of the Satyros ambassador.

* * *

After dropping Ernst to a border village near the Sand Fortress, Heiss came back to find an Alistel ready to erupt. In his absence, the city criers had rallied the people to Hugo's cause, telling them of a secret menace that was growing to the south. The tale that a Celestian spy had been found inside the capital had also spread like fire; soon, whispers that the Satyros were eyeing Alistel's prosperity revived the Alistellians' latent fear of an invasion. To the average citizen of the capital, the war with Granorg seemed like a distant thing that would never directly cross into their life. Of course the possibility of a closer threat would leave them sleepless in their beds at night.

On the morning when the military would march out of Alistel, Hugo appeared in front of a Noah Square full to the brim. The General emerged from the highest balcony of Castle Alistel, clad in the most magnificent of armours, and under the eyes of a thousand of his followers, he vowed to destroy this new enemy before it could even strike. The Alistellian citizens answered his announcement with thunderous applause, before escorting his troops out of the city with songs and prayers. The spectacle had almost made Heiss sick.

He was curious to see the outcome of his machinations, prompting him to sneak to the first lines of combat. It had been several years now since Heiss had marched alongside soldiers (for a definition of 'march', anyway, since he mostly followed them from afar, staying hidden under the Vanish spell whenever he could). From what he could see, the Alistellian troops seemed obscenely pleased to pillage and burn the spiritual ground of the Satyros people. Heiss hadn't been surprised. _Why should I be? History always calls such people heroes._ The Alistellian boys and girls walking alongside him were only treading in the footsteps of other murderers. _And if not for me, History would only repeat itself._ It was time to bring it to an end.

The Satyros put up a good fight, their mages causing no short of trouble for Hugo's troops. They used the terrain to their advantage, striking the Alistellian host in swift, deadly ambushes before fading back to the shadows of the forest. The Alistellians' retribution was immediate, savage; they set fire to the woods, smoking out the Celestian warriors, forcing them into the open where they were hunted like animals.

Still, the invaders were kept away from Celestia for the better part of a month, surpassing all of Heiss' expectations. But wave upon wave of Alistellian attacks eroded the wall of the Satyros' defences, breaking it piece by piece, brick by brick. Their army wasn't pulling back fast enough; soon, Hugo's men were swarming their capital, running down soldiers as well as civilians.

The houses and buildings of Celestia were beautifully decorated, and seemed to be wrought from the trees themselves. Their bright colours blackened when Hugo's troops raised their bows to rain arrows and fire upon them. The flames spread through the meadows, turning all manner of plant life to ash. Heiss only knew the flowers of Celestia from the books he used to read as a child, having never seen them with his own eyes before. He found himself unable to speak as he contemplated the blood now splattered all over the asters, camellias and irises. The delicate blossoms all twisted and writhed under the assault of the fire, their remains mingling with the soot coming from the burning of Celestia and her people.

Heiss watched the Satyros being slaughtered without moving, without saying a word. He wondered if he should feel pity or grief at their fate. _They would have died anyway._ A young man earned himself a spear through the neck as he tried to crawl away from the fighting. A woman uselessly swung a heavy staff at two armoured soldiers who then hacked her into pieces. An old man was pierced mid-flight by an arrow under the horrified gaze of another Satyros—his son, perhaps. From deep within his mind, Heiss felt as if a pair of gold-flecked green eyes was glaring at him; the sheer hatred that ignited their depths reminded him of the last look Ernst had given him. _They're dead,_ Heiss told the ghost in his memories. _They're all dead, even the Alistellians. They just don't know it yet._ Heiss could almost hear Isla whisper: _You murderer!_ _How could you? How could you?_

Heiss ignored the phantom's cries. _Better now than later._ He steeled his gaze. _It will spare them some sorrow at least._

The city burned for the better part of the day. When the last rays of the sun filtered from the canopy, engulfing the charred ruins of Celestia in a soft red glow, Heiss realized that was nothing for him to find in the ruins. All around, the fighting was dying down. Heiss had stayed hidden behind a low wall—the sole remains of someone's house, probably—for the last hour or so, vanishing from sight whenever it was necessary. He stood up to leave, but then out of the corner of his eye a bit of movement caught his sight. Heiss disappeared under the Vanish spell, muscles tensing as he prepared himself for an attack. He was surprised to find instead a child crouching beside him, the wall barely hiding her long horns from view. She was covering her mouth with her hands, possibly to stifle the sound of her sobs. With a hiccup she turned big green eyes to him; they widened as she stared in his direction, and she sucked in a breath, sniffing back her tears.

 _Can she see me?_ Heiss wondered. The idea was bizarre, ludicrous even, and yet the girl's eyes seemed to be indeed fixed on him. She opened her mouth to say something, but was stopped from doing so when two Alistellian soldiers irrupted to Heiss' left. The girl let out a strangled cry, then began to sob some more.

"Milady!" a voice shouted from behind. Heiss turned to see that two armour-clad Satyros women were rushing to their sides.

Their swords met the blades of the Alistellians, the four opponents engaging in a swift, but deadly dance. The two Satyros were clearly more skilled than their adversaries, and soon the two Alistellians were nothing but corpses at their feet.

"Milady!" The tallest of the two Satyros ran to the little girl. Her shockingly red hair was tied in a high ponytail. "Heavens be praised! You're safe!"

"Elm!" the other swordswoman called out. She had close-cropped blond hair, and her face was paler and broader. "More are coming!" Heiss heard the woman named Elm swear loudly.

"Is there no end to them?" she said, her hands tightening around her sword. The other woman looked at her, her eyes softening.

"Elm, you take the little lady somewhere safe," she said. "I'll hold them off."

The prospect clearly displeased the one called Elm, but she concealed whatever grievances she had. "You stay alive, you hear, Yucca? You better stay alive and come back to us." She grabbed the child. The little girl had stopped crying, strangely enough. She pointed to where Heiss was still hidden under the Vanish spell, her eyes round with curiosity.

"What about him?" the child said. "He's on fire! We should help him!"

"What? What do you mean, milady?"

 _"Elm!"_ the other swordswoman shouted. Four Alistellian soldiers had drawn their swords, and they were advancing toward the two Satyros women with a menacing gait. "There's no time! Run!"

They exchanged one last look, and Elm let out a small, mournful sound as she took off. Heiss still felt the gaze of the child upon him as they fled.

He knew that the Satyros woman—Yucca seemed to be her name—would not last long. She managed to evade the attacks of three of the soldiers with artful grace, sending them to a quick death, but the fourth pierced her side, bringing her lovely dance to an end. As she lay panting on the ground, the soldier tentatively raised his lance to finish the task. _What a waste_ , Heiss thought. _Such an idiotic death for one so brave._

By then, Heiss had come to his limits with the Vanish spell. He flashed into view, startling the Alistellian soldier. Heiss did not know what drove him to do as he did next; was it anger at the courageous Satyros' fate, a sense of boredom or the burning need to feel a rush of Mana coursing through him once again? No matter the reason, he found himself leaping at the soldier, Black Chronicle in his hands. Heiss was so close now he could see how young the Alistellian truly was—he seemed barely out of childhood. The boy's face contorted horribly when Heiss severed the link between his body and soul. The Mana flowed back to Heiss, knocking the air out of his lungs like a blow to the chest. A pleasant tingling spread through his body as the energy thawed its way through his veins, appeasing his sore muscles and stiff joints. The Satyros swordswoman softly hissed a curse as the Alistellian's body crumbled into sand.

"What sorcery is this?" she panted, horror-struck. "What sort of demon are you?"

Heiss looked down at her. Her wound was less profound than he had first thought. She would die more slowly than he had believed at first, and more painfully too.

"I can help you," Heiss told her. "I can end it all and make the pain go away if you like." While his voice was steady and gentle, a part of him was screaming for more, _more_ , _MORE!_

The disgust in her gaze was strong enough to wear down walls. "Y-You're no demon. You're just a human." She spat at his feet, then seized a knife from her hip. She had cut her throat to the bone before Heiss could say or do anything.

* * *

Hugo's troops came back home in triumph. Words swiftly got to the streets of how fierce and savage the enemy had been. Their warriors had thrown their women and children at the forefront of the fighting to save their own skins, Heiss heard a soldier say to his mother. Others whispered that the Celestians had fought with claws and teeth like wild animals. Heiss was vaguely amused by the absurdity of these rumours... and the effectiveness of Hugo's propaganda machine. He wondered how long this achievement would keep afloat the pride and trust the Alistellians put into their military. _Not for long, probably. Once the dust settles down in Granorg, who knows how efficient they'll be without my idiotic brother holding the reins? Perhaps they'll even crush the Alistellians once and for all._

Still, Heiss was torn between elation and apathy. In his mind's eye, the judgement of Isla's gold-green gaze was always upon him. As days passed, however, it got easier and easier to let the scorn wash over him without ever feeling its barbs. After all, his brother had it lost all, paying for his crimes with his life, while he and Ernst were still gloriously alive—how could he doubt that his present course of action would not bring balance to a crooked, undeserving world?

 _Only Teo and Lippti still don't believe in me._ It must have been part of a scheme to sway him back to his original duty, Heiss surmised. He couldn't believe they had deceived him for so long. _They must have begun from the very moment we met, in fact_ , he thought. Yet, now that he was back to the loneliness of his living quarters, it was hard not to remember. Since the early days of their partnership, they had stayed by his side without wavering, healing his wounds without asking anything in return, standing and listening as he raged and wept and faltered. _Was it all just for the sake of grooming me to be a Sacrifice? Or was there a bit of sincerity to their—?_

Heiss shook his head, angered with himself. Of course, the twins had lied to him all these years. The world had clearly gone mad, and it fell to he and Ernst—the ones forsaken by History—to be its judge, jury and executioner. Wordlessly, Heiss rose from his bed, walking over to the desk that now held the two Chronicles. He laid the old tomes side by side and put one hand on the Black Chronicle. As he sensed its power quivering silently from under his fingertips, Heiss swore to never let doubt or emotion cloud his judgement again.

The reaffirmation of his true task awoke anew the ferocious sense of purpose that was born the day he had consumed his brother's soul. Within him, the part of Victor that still retained a sliver of consciousness contorted in agony. Heiss grinned; simultaneously, in the very heart of Granorg, the soulless body of the man who once had been King Victor started to twitch from inside its grave.

* * *

A few months later, half a world away from the capital of Alistel, a teenage boy was waking up with nothing to his name but a red scarf and an old blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry, this chapter is a bit confusing since it's pretty non-linear. Here's a little timeline if you're lost.
> 
> \- Beginning of the month: Ernst is killed then revived with half of Eruca's soul (Heiss can't go back to before that date). Samra is captured around the same time since Heiss doesn't help him.
> 
> \- Heiss steals the Black Chronicle in an alternate timeline. Afterwards, he uses a few timelines to practise with his new toy. Meanwhile, the Chronicle disappears from Victor's desk in every timeline including the main one, since only one copy of the Black Chronicle can exist across all possible timelines.
> 
> \- Heiss uses the Black Chronicle to land an infodump on Hugo. This prompts the latter to start researching Historica more thoroughly. Hugo then orders Samra's execution.
> 
> \- Heiss goes to Granorg, intercepts Victor as he tries to kill Ernst at the end of the month, kills his bro, brainwashes his poor nephew, yadda yadda yadda. These are the events of the main timeline that leads to the game, and the ones depicted in Chapter 16.
> 
> \- Celestia is burned to the ground and the Satyros pull back deeper into the woods.
> 
> \- A boy named Stocke wakes up somewhere in a refugee camp...
> 
> Oof. Damn all this time-travel and those alternate timelines... As always, here's a shout-out to ishouldliveinsalt for making sure this isn't a mess of horrible grammatical errors all the time and to quicksilver-ink for a few ideas. And thanks to all of you readers too!


	20. Chapter 18 - An Insignificant Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The wind was howling outside, raising gusts of dust that violently assaulted the tent the Alistellian healers had set up for the wounded. The pavilion had been hastily raised to house the soldiers and civilians who flocked away from the area where the Granorgite army had launched their surprise offensive a month earlier. Inside, the healers and patients prayed that the fragile structure would withstand the wind's assault, if only to give them a little respite.

The invaders had displayed a savagery unlike anything the Alistellians had ever seen. After seizing the Fortress in a turn of events that had sent the brass reeling, the soldiers of King Victor's widow had defeated the bulk of the Alistellian army in the plains south of Lazvil Hills. They'd then stormed through the countryside, razing villages to the ground and hunting down any Alistellian citizen who managed to escape their assault. The attacks had been so swift and barbaric the Alistellian commanding officer in charge of the area had been left unable to act. Never since the Rebellion had the Granorgites been so bold and vicious. The late king, it seemed, had been concerned enough over the lives of the enemy civilians to keep them from being directly targeted. Queen Protea, his successor, clearly had no such qualms.

The wave of brutality had only been recently stopped in its course by the newly minted Field Marshal, Alistel's beloved Viola. Her troops held the line on the southern border of Lazvil Hills, crushing any opposition with the strength and determination the people had come to expect and love from their Valkyrie. Encampments had been built behind the area, and they were soon swarmed with fleeing civilians. In the infirmary pavilion of one of these camps, a blond teenage boy was starting to wake; he had been brought in a week earlier, on the brink of death. A small groan came out of his lips as his eyes opened.

"Where," he croaked, "where am I...?"

"Oh! You're finally awake!"

The teenager tried to find the source of the sound; it was a difficult enough task, what with the wind shrieking outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an old man with wild grey hair and whiskers limping his way toward him. The man appeared shaky on his feet, even with a cane aiding his movements.

"Where am I?" the boy asked again as he attempted to sit up. He gave a pained grunt and promptly slunk down on the bed.

"Don't push yourself too hard, my boy," said the old man. "You were dealt a rather nasty wound. It hasn't completely healed yet."

"What...?" the teenager mumbled before his eyes suddenly grew wide. "The town! They told us to evacuate, but then..." He grabbed his head in his hands, groaning. "All I remember is those Granorgites overrunning the market district and then..."

The old man said nothing. The healers were too busy with the other patients to pay them any attention. At the other end of the pavilion, a small child screamed, while a woman covered in purulent bandages thrashed in her cot. The teenager gazed at them with muted shock, sucking in a painful breath.

"You've come from the town of Reginn, haven't you, boy?" the old man said. As the teenager agreed with a tense nod, the old man sighed. "I'm sorry... everything past Reginn is now under Granorgite control. I haven't met anyone else claiming to be from your town. Either they are all dead or the Granorgites sold them to Cygnan slave traders."

The youth's face drained of all colour.

"I'm sorry, you must have lost your entire family," the old man said.

The boy only cleared his throat. "No. Most of my family passed away when I was a kid, and my father died a year ago. I had nobody back in Reginn." His words were strangely devoid of any emotion.

"Hmm," was the old man's reply. "Luckily for you, I was selling my wares in the marketplace when the town was attacked, and so I came upon you after some Granorgite soldiers left you for dead." He tapped one of his legs with his cane. "What I got for my trouble was a quarrel to the knee. Still, I managed to get you out of the city and in reach of the Alistellian troops. You've been out of it for more than one week now. I was beginning to fear you wouldn't make it."

The old man tried to give an earnest smile as he extended his hand in greeting, but his grin had an eerie quality about it. "I'm a travelling apothecary named Heiss. What's your name, boy?"

The boy's blue-green gaze rose to meet the old man's eyes. They were a peculiar shade of red.

"You can call me Stocke."

* * *

Heiss was carrying the last of the shipment of medicinal herbs into his cart when Ernst ( _Stocke, Stocke, **Stocke** )_ came wobbling towards him. Against the backdrop of the heavily armoured Alistellian soldiers and the healers in their blood-splattered whites roaming through the rows of tents, he stood out like a sore thumb.

"Mr. Heiss, sir," he began, "I have a favour to ask." In one hand, Stocke held a sword that appeared to have seen better days. His other hand was draped over his abdomen, and Heiss could see him wince every time he drew a breath.

"A favour? From me?" Heiss said, his surprise not feigned for once. "What could I possibly do for you?"

"The soldiers here told me you were returning to the capital," replied Stocke. "I'd like to hitch a ride with you if it's possible. I was in the town militia back home, so I know how to fight. If we get attacked by bandits I can—"

Heiss shot him an incredulous look. "Fight? In your current state? I wouldn't advise it."

Stocke frowned. "It's just that your wound..." He glanced down at Heiss' leg and sighed. "I see. I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have bothered you." He turned on his heel to head back toward the medical pavilion.

"Where are you going?" an amused Heiss said, "I haven't said you couldn't come with me."

Stocke halted. "I don't want to get in your way. You have many days of travelling in front of you and you don't need some random kid slowing you down. You've already saved my life once. I don't want to ask any more of you."

"Nonsense, my boy. I did not save you while expecting something in return. I'm not that kind of person." _At least not with you._

The corners of Stocke's mouth formed a fleeting smile, but his eyes remained as serious as ever. "I'm forever grateful, sir. I'll make sure I'll pay you back someday."

_I'll be happy if you just managed to stay out of harm's way from now on, you self-sacrificing halfwit._

"We'll see about that later," said Heiss, "but let us be on our way. I am on a tight schedule."

* * *

They had been on the road for more than a day when they finally reached the central part of Lazvil Hills. Stocke had spent much of the trip either silent, the lower part of his face hidden by a red scarf (it was not so much a scarf than the last remains of the cloak Heiss had laid on Ernst when he had left him, some months ago, to be taken care of in Reginn). Every moment when they had been forced to interact together, such as when it was time to eat or to set up camp, wound up being awkward, unsettling even. Instead of trying to strike out conversations with his travelling partner, Stocke instead used most of his time to heal his wounds a bit each day. He had proposed to treat Heiss' leg as well, but the latter had declined. He needed the boy to save up his Mana for better purposes.

Whenever they stopped, Stocke would slip away to find wood or something to eat. Heiss hadn't been able to contain a bark of laughter when the boy came back one night, his hands full of dark berries.

"I would throw that away if I were you," said Heiss.

Stocke's brows furrowed in an almost comical way. "They're poisonous?"

 _"Atropa belladonna_. Nightshade. Symptoms include a wide range of lovely effects such as hallucinations, convulsions and possible death."

Stocke smiled his short-lived smile again. "I see... not quite what I had in mind for today's supper."

Something began to gnaw at the edge of Heiss' mind. For a moment there, it had almost felt as if the two people standing by the unlit pile of wood had not been Heiss and Stocke but instead—

"Sir? Do you want me to start the fire?"

Stocke's voice harshly interrupted Heiss' rememberances. He silently thanked the boy. _Don't let feelings cloud your judgement_ , Heiss repeated his new mantra. _Stick to your role and plan._

"Of course, please do. The night will be cool, and I am starving."

All of their conversations turned to drab and formal topics every day afterwards. Heiss almost welcomed the telltale stench of Alistel's industries with a sigh of relief. Stocke himself scrunched up his nose, unused to the smell. They were still a few hours away from the city, however, and the temperature had already dropped noticeably.

"The sun is setting _,_ " said Heiss. "Perhaps we should stop for the night." He yanked on the reins of the horse pulling the carriage.

"Travelling these parts at nighttime can be dangerous," Stocke agreed, echoing what Heiss had told him at the start of their journey.

"I know," replied Heiss. "If we depart early in the morning tomorrow, we'll be able to reach the city before midday without any problem."

Next to him, Stocke answered with a shrug.

"Right," Heiss said, adjusting the large-brimmed hat on his head, "do you want to set up camp or prepare dinner?"

Stocke opened his mouth to reply, but then his gaze suddenly became focused on something to their right. There were some movements in the bushes, and Heiss could not help but roll his eyes, knowing what coming was next. As expected, four men sprang out of the side of the road. The horse whinnied and backed away, spooked by their sudden appearance.

Stocke's hand rapidly went to the hilt of his sword, and one of the bandits raised a crossbow in response. The boy cursed under his breath.

"Well, well," one of the outlaws said, "what have we here?"

Heiss sighed. "You all have eyes as far as I'm aware," he said, managing to keep the exasperation from his voice. Whenever he chanced upon some bandits, they always unexplicably displayed the same amount of idiocy. These four were no different, and it gave Heiss the desire to brutally murder them all.

The man bristled at his tone. "Cute. Very cute. Now both of you get out."

Holding his hat steadily in place, Heiss jumped out of the cart, quickly followed by Stocke. The boy's jaw was set square and tight.

"Mr. Heiss, sir," he whispered, his hand still clutching his sword, "what should we do?"

"Nothing," was Heiss' response. He watched three of the bandits climb into the cart with an indifferent gaze, folding his arms across his chest. The fourth brigand just glared at Heiss and Stocke, crossbow pointed straight at them. Heiss was sure he could very much kill all of them without breaking a sweat, but he doubted doing so would endear him to Stocke. Ernst, bless his naive little heart, had never been very fond of murder after all.

"Not so chatty now, eh, you old bastard?" the crossbowman said in a jittery voice. His eyes darted to Stocke. "As for you, kiddo, I'd forget about the sword or else your poor gramps will get a quarrel in the belly for his trouble. You wouldn't want that, right?" He gave a nervous little laugh as Heiss let out a sigh again. "Lookit here, seems like I scared the old coot."

"Oh, I'm about to faint from fright, truly."

The bandit's eyes narrowed. "You sassin' me, old man? You think this is some sort of joke?"

"No," Heiss replied, "no, I wouldn't dream of..."

Before Heiss could clarify, one of the brigands gave a holler; he had thrown the last bag of materials out of the cart. He and the two others jumped out soon after.

"It was nice doing business with you gentlemen," the oldest bandit—their leader, probably—said. He shot them a grin, showing a mix of yellowed and blackened teeth.

"Should we just let them go like that?" the crossbowman asked. "I mean, I don't want no Alistellian soldiers on our trail. They been crawlin' around the place for days now."

"Point taken," the leader said. His grin grew wolfish as he turned to Heiss and Stocke. "You won't hold it against us, eh? Life's hard nowadays, gotta do what we gotta do."

Heiss shrugged, but Stocke dropped to a battle stance, teeth flaring. The crossbowman raised his weapon to shoot, and Heiss felt the bite of the bolt on his arm as he rammed into Stocke, pushing the boy out of the way. He heard a little hiss of surprise from his nephew, but there was no time for Heiss to divert any of his attention to him; two of the brigands had drawn their swords and were rushing toward them.

The first to get to them was blown away by a pillar of fire that suddenly flared to Heiss' right. Heiss easily deflected the second man's sword with a dagger he grabbed from under his coat; the bandit had been so shocked by his comrade's screams of pain and terror that his attack had been clumsy and sluggish. Heiss sent him tumbling to the ground with a kick to the kneecap.

At this moment, the third bandit erupted from somewhere behind Heiss, hatchet in hand. A second later and it would have been buried in Heiss' shoulder if not for Stocke's timely intervention; a sword burst through the highwayman's chest, and blood spurted all over Heiss' face as he turned to look at Stocke's expression. The boy showed little to no emotion.

"Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_ " The crossbowman was panicking now, his hands fumbling to draw another bolt. Heiss dashed to him and ended his efforts with a quick slash to the throat. He paused to gather his breath and wipe the blood off his face. Stocke similarly stood panting over the two bandits who were still alive. The brigand who had been burned by his fire spell was screaming and writhing on the ground, and Heiss swiftly made his way towards him to put him out of his misery.

As Heiss slid his blade out of the bandit's throat, he peered closely at Stocke. The teenager was breathing heavily, his sword pointed at the neck of the last remaining brigand.

"What are you waiting for?" Heiss enquired. "Finish him."

Stocke threw him a queer look.

"What are you doing, my boy? He isn't in a position to attack you anymore. Strike him and be done with it."

Stocke shook his head. Heiss couldn't believe his eyes; the boy continued to hesitate over the outlaw, unsure, afraid, and now Heiss was sure he'd seen the the brigand reaching for his sword again—

Stocke's response had been so prompt it only could have been a product of a lifetime of learning the sword. The teenager watched the man dying at his feet—the man he'd killed by his own blade—in stunned silence, his breathing becoming laboured and wheezy.

"Stocke," Heiss began. He rose to his feet, and walked over to the boy, eyes never leaving his tense form. When Heiss reached him, the stillness that had come over Stocke finally broke, and he keeled over, violently retching.

Heiss took a step backward, looking at him warily. It took a whole minute for Stocke to finally stop vomiting. The boy then crawled away before collapsing to the ground, shivering.

"Stocke," Heiss called out. "Stocke?"

Heiss was unable to pry an answer out of him afterwards. After a few minutes of this troubling silence, Heiss thought it better to leave the boy to his own devices. Besides, he had to drag the corpses away from the road and hide them as deep in the woods as he could. When he returned, Stocke was still sitting, mute; the fire he had lit danced in his wide, empty eyes. Heiss spent most of the night quietly glancing in his direction, wondering what madness had come over him. Stocke seemed fine physically speaking, but when Heiss had attempted to approach him, he only earned himself a glare. Stocke had then gone to sleep, leaving Heiss alone to mull over the events of the day.

When daylight broke, Heiss tried to speak to the boy again.

"Stocke? Is there something wrong? They didn't injure you, did they?" he said, rummaging through their supplies to prepare breakfast. "Perhaps it was callous of me to let you fight while you were still so weak from your wounds. If so, I am sorry."

One of Stocke's eyes cracked open. "I'm fine," he replied gruffly. "My wounds don't bother me anymore." There was a silence, then the boy continued, his voice weak and thin, "Had you... had you ever killed a man before yesterday?"

The question made Heiss frown. "Of course I had. I wouldn't have survived for long in my line of work if I hadn't. The war has made all roads dangerous, especially for poor merchants like me." Heiss watched Stocke's reaction closely as he added almost nonchalantly. "What of it?"

Stocke adjusted the scarf over his face. "Never mind." His expression darkened. "How is your leg? I noticed you forgot your cane in the cart when the bandits attacked."

"It's better now. The Alistellian healers did a good job."

Stocke's eyes narrowed. "I thought so. Otherwise, you wouldn't have fought so well. I thought you had been shot too, but I see no wound..." Heiss silently held his gaze. "I must have imagined things, then."

"Funny what a bit of fear coursing through your system can do," Heiss replied. "But enough of that: let's eat. As I told you, I need to reach the city before midday."

The boy diligently did as Heiss asked, and they continued their journey soon after. Their shadows had grown short under the rays of the sun when they finally passed the walls of the first ward of Alistel. Heiss brought his cart to a stop on the side of the road to ask Stocke where he would like to go. The boy answered by grabbing his sword and the bag holding his meagre possessions before climbing out of the carriage.

"I'll figure out on my own," Stocke told Heiss in a fairly curt voice.

"Are you sure?" Heiss said. The crowd within the first ward had nothing on the mob of people that swarmed through Granorg's busiest streets, but it was dense enough for someone to easily get lost. "Do you have any family here? Someone who can help you?"

"No," Stocke said. "But I can manage. I'll find a job, then—"

"A _job?_ Where? How?"

Stocke's frown deepened, and he cast an uncertain look at the men and women who came and went in the crowded street. Now that he was surrounded by a few hundred—a mere percentage, really!—of the people who lived and thrived in the capital, perhaps it was starting to dawn on him that finding a way to support himself would be more difficult than he had first thought.

"If you want," Heiss began, "you could always come work for me. I might find a little something—"

"You're not a medicine man," Stocke cut him short. For the first time in many hours, he was gazing directly into Heiss' eyes. "What are you, really?"

Only the hubbub of the busy street filled the air then. The citizens of Alistel went about their daily lives, unaware of the scene playing in their very midst. Finally, laughter burst out of Heiss' mouth in loud, almost hysterical bouts. Stocke stared at him with narrow eyes as the older man nearly laughed himself sore.

"What makes you say that, my boy?" Heiss managed between guffaws. "Just who do you think I am?"

Stocke threw back his scarf over his shoulder, covering the bottom part of his face with the red fabric. "I can't say. But whatever your line of work is, I'm not sure I qualify."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Heiss said, his eyes shining. He couldn't see whether or not the boy was smiling in return. "Whatever you do, keep in mind my offer. I'd be happy to have you in my service."

Stocke said nothing more, and only offered Heiss a stiff _'thank you'_ as a farewell. Heiss looked at him disappear within the crowd; when Stocke was finally out of view, the clueless grin he'd been sporting dissipated.

* * *

Heiss had barely begun to settle himself back in his apartments when one of Hugo's aides appeared in his doorway.

"Sir," he said, a bit too brusquely for Heiss' tastes, "the General has been looking for you."

Heiss said nothing. He'd deemed the fallout that would stem from Hugo's wrath to be an acceptable trade for the month he had spent building up the circumstances that would give birth to Ernst's new life. Of course, said circumstances benefited the Prophet's Voice very little. Not that it mattered. Hugo was inconsequential. As was everyone else in this castle save for Heiss himself.

The aide cleared his throat again, and Heiss felt himself scowl. _Inconsequential._ "Sir?" the man said. "Did you hear...?"

Heiss sharply turned on his heel, and Hugo's aide flinched. The latter seemed to be holding his breath as Heiss silently glided toward him to step out of his chambers; Heiss was already a few feet away when he finally heard the man exhale.

When Heiss arrived at the door leading to the General's office, Hugo's secretary sprang out from his chair, stuttering that the latter was too busy to see him now. He shut up as quickly as he had stood when Heiss' gaze landed upon him. The man then stumbled through the door to announce Heiss' arrival.

The General raised a pair of furious eyes to Heiss when the secretary closed the door behind him. "You. Where on earth were you the last month?"

Heiss did not answer, tilting his head to meet the man's gaze. Hugo's frown weakened for a moment, and he drew back into his chair, rubbing the nape of his neck. Heiss let out a small sigh of satisfaction and finally smiled.

"You asked me to keep an eye on the border, did you not? Ever since we caught wind of the new queen's military plans—"

Hugo slammed a fist on his desk, an uncharacteristically violent gesture that brought back memories from what Heiss felt was another life. He cocked an eyebrow, vaguely amused. _The two are surprisingly alike._ The thought nearly made Heiss lose his smile. _I escaped Victor just to find another like him. What rotten luck I have._

"Caught wind? _Caught wind?!_ " Hugo said between grit teeth. "You completely failed to mention the scale of the Granorgites' attack! If any of your people had done their jobs correctly, then perhaps we would have never lost the Sand Fortress!"

"My people did what they could with what was given to them," Heiss reminded the General in a dry tone. "You can't expect them to work miracles out of thin air." _Especially with me working against them_ , he thought, a little smug.

Hugo let out a soft curse, and he hid his face in his hands, rubbing his temples with slow exhalations. When he gazed at Heiss again, his hands steepled against his mouth, and his eyes were dark with animosity.

"Of course, some of the blame has to be placed at the feet of the commanding officer in charge," Hugo admitted. " _Raul_." The single name dripped with venomous contempt.

Heiss had never met the Lieutenant General, but from what he had gathered the man was sharp and well-liked by his troops; his defeat on the plains south of Lazvil Hills had only broken a string of once uninterrupted victories. Raul however possessed the lack of ambition that plagued so many good men and women, their unwillingness to act pushing instead people like Victor and Hugo into the void they left behind. For this, Heiss had nothing but eternal scorn for the man.

Heiss shrugged. "The Granorgites might be victorious now, but they spread out too soon, and too fast. There was a reason why the late King Victor was always so averse to the idea of mounting an attack on such a grand scale."

"What?" Hugo barked. "What on earth are you going on about?"

"The man was paranoid, yes, but at least he acknowledged that his position was not as secure as it seemed from the outside," Heiss said."That woman, however, has no idea of what she is doing. The people will cheer for her as long as her military campaigns will succeed, but the moment the dead start to pile up, she won't be able to strike back at the insurgency that will certainly rise against her." Heiss tugged on his whiskers; he deliberately chose not to mention that the dissident groups he had encountered in Granorg before had all failed at their objective. "I give her three, four years at the most before she is ousted from power."

"And so?" Hugo said. "Her knights are trampling Alistellian soil _now._ They're butchering my people!"

 _You would know about butchering, would you?_ Heiss couldn't help but think. "Her tactics won't work for long. She's too aggressive for her own good." A muscle twitched over Hugo's brow, but Heiss made no sign that he had noticed it. "Her advisers would be wise to stop her. If you play your cards right, you might get out of this sticky situation faster than you think."

"How?" Hugo said, glaring. "I am surrounded by incompetents such as you and Raul!"

"I can't speak for Lieutenant General Raul, but I assure you I would give better results with more... _resources_... at my disposal. I will not disappoint you if you give me another chance. The good Prophet was prone to say forgiveness was an attribute of the strong, was he not?"

The anger Hugo had displayed earlier was childish exasperation compared to the rage that seemed to boil underneath his skin now. The General all but leaped out of his chair, stabbing a finger in Heiss' direction... but he abruptly stopped in his stride, his hand still hovering in the air, when the hidden meaning behind Heiss' words dawned on him.

 _"'Was'_? _"_ Hugo repeated, brows furrowing. "What do you mean, _'was'?_ The Prophet is not—"

Heiss pressed his mouth into a thin line to keep himself from smiling. "Is he? I was under the impression that he had not survived his illness. From your reaction, it appears I might be wrong. Am I?"

"Who," Hugo said in a strangled voice, "who else knows?"

"Who else knows what?" Heiss parroted the man's words. This time, his mouth did curve into a grin, one that prompted the General to swallow nervously. "I happen to come across hundreds of stories and rumours and old wives' tales in my line of work. How can I know what you speak of if you keep to riddles and hints?"

Hugo sank back into his chair, falling silent.

Heiss continued, amusement creeping into his voice. "What about it, General? Will you give me a longer leash to do your bidding? Otherwise, I might be tempted to try my luck elsewhere..."

"Yes," Hugo interrupted him. "Yes, yes, I'll give you whatever you want." His shoulders were slightly slumped forward, but the scowl on his face had gotten deeper than ever. "I should never have trusted a mercenary. Your kind are nothing but liars and thieves."

"I'll be kind and mercifully forget the last part," Heiss replied coolly. And with a quick bow he was out of the man's office.

* * *

The day after, Hugo's personal assistant visited Heiss again to inform him he was to be moved to bigger quarters. His words veiled hints that Heiss would also be allowed whatever he needed to accomplish his tasks. The man seemed oddly relieved to be ushered out afterwards.

Heiss had little to no possessions to bring to his new lodgings. He was amused to find that his office was situated on the floor where one could find the highest ranking officers of the Alistellian military. His sudden arrival earned him bewildered stares and scornful looks from the soldiers and servants inhabiting that part of the castle. Heiss did not mind. _They're dead men walking. They'll all be dead soon, unlike me._

He now had to work to ensure the end would come sooner. Teo and Lippti hinted that the desertification would consume the continent in a little over a decade. It was long, _too_ long. The process had to be accelerated somehow.

The weeks passed, and Heiss' web grew. Old faces joined the new as he assembled the pieces he would need for the coming events. Cat was still alive in this timeline, and her discreet sense of duty served him as well as it did in the past. Mira had been easy to mold into an instrument of coercion with the powers of the Black Chronicle; the process had left her a husk of her old self, but Heiss had waved his guilt away by telling himself it was for the greater good. Daoud had been given a second chance and had enrolled in the Alistellian military at Heiss' behest to serve as his master's eyes and ears. Heiss hoped the man would not prove to be a disappointment this time. In the end, of his old guard only Salvia had refused to come back. As with Mira, Heiss had to adjust a few choice memories, most of them pertaining to her brother, for whom she was still grieving. Good healers, like any other kind of magic users, were rather difficult to find, and Heiss wasn't about to let one as talented as Salvia slip between his fingers.

Months of preparations eventually led to one crucial period. Heiss found himself at a crossroads; he had Ernst within reach but not truly within his grasp, and while he was steering Hugo in a direction that would not only lead to the downfall of his country, but of the entire continent, the entire process was just going too _slowly_. Heiss needed to act now, but every bit of his plan was going to need some careful thinking.

His latter objective was jumpstarted the day Professor Rowan was killed in action on the frontlines. The man, unlike most of his colleagues at the Thaumatech Division, had been incensed to hear of soldiers dying of their wounds by the dozens at the sites of the Granorgites' attacks. Against Hugo's orders, Rowan had gathered a few of his subordinates and left his post to treat those unfortunate who really were all that stood against a full scale invasion of Alistel.

To say Hugo had been furious would have been an understatement. Heiss had barely contained his amusement when the man had exploded, one day, after word had gone out of the doctor's deeds on the frontlines.

"He has _what?"_ the General had thundered. "How dare he waste public funds in such a way?"

The officers presiding over Hugo's war council had exchanged nervous looks, while Heiss had just leaned on a wall, observing the scene unfolding in front of his eyes with a certain mirth. The high brass had been suspicious and even insulted the first times Hugo had brought Heiss along, but now they did tolerate him—if barely.

"Director Rowan has always been a strange one," one of the officers offered in an hesitant voice.

"This isn't be the first time he has gone against common sense on a whim," another added. Hugo glared at the two.

Heiss gave a light snort. In the now dead timeline where the professor had grafted the Gauntlets to his arms, paying the costly operation using funds that belonged to the division itself, General Hugo had also been deeply angered. His reaction had however been more subdued then. Unlike the fortunate soldier who had found himself the beneficiary of a Thaumatech prosthetic in the current timeline, Heiss was actually considered useful by the General. It wasn't so with a simple private with nothing to his name but a single battle which had cost him his arm.

"There has been enough of these occurrences," Hugo replied in a growl. "Let's see what he does when stripped of his title and the budget that goes with it."

The officers exchanged looks once more. Heiss could feel Hugo's annoyance radiating in waves from the man.

"Other than Director Fennel, Rowan is the best Thaumatech specialist we have," a lieutenant general said, her mouth grim. "Would it be wise to toss him aside?"

"Such developments are still useful," another pointed out. "These Gauntlets can add to the fighting capacities of our men."

Hugo's hands tightened into fists. "Not enough. We must put all of our efforts into the creation of combat Thaumachines. Anything else is a waste."

His words prompted arguments from every side. Heiss took no part in the deliberation, even when the discussion grew more animated. To the rest of the Alistellian brass, he was Hugo's creature, nothing more. He might as well have been invisible to them.

To Hugo's horror, the officers settled on forcing Rowan's hand on the issue of military-use Thaumachines without punishing him for his insubordination. The General might have been of higher rank, but he could still not go against a decision agreed on unanimously by the members of his war council. Heiss knew the man enough to realize he would take this as a personal slight.

And so, Heiss was not surprised when he learned of Rowan's tragic death.

Could Hugo have ordered the man to be killed? The possibility was there, and Heiss could have verified his hypothesis with the snap of a finger, but in the end he decided against it. The desire to use his powers to save the man from his fate also flickered in his mind; this time, he'd entertained the idea for a mere second before setting it aside. A sense of gratitude might have linked them together in another world, but in this one they had never even met. Heiss mentally burned the ties that had bound the two of them together, and Rowan joined the likes of Isla, Amir and Samra in the hazy meanders of his memories.

 _They are nothing._ _Dead, dead, they're all dead, regardless of anything I did. Of anything I do. They're all dead, just like the other tens of millions of people on this continent._ Only his own survival mattered now. _And Ernst's._ A single golden hair on the boy's head was worth more than the hundreds of heartbeats that quivered within Castle Alistel.

_I must keep him alive. I must. I will._

Heiss wished he could say he managed to keep this second objective a secret, but events soon proved otherwise.

* * *

"Okay, people! That's enough for today!" Daoud called out. A chorus of groans and cheers followed his words.

Salvia, being the unit's medic, was quickly swarmed by their dozen of cadets. They only had the most minor of cuts and bruises, but she humoured them and treated their injuries like they were the greatest of war wounds. They were good kids, that bunch. She hoped they'd stay kids for a little longer.

At first, she hadn't exactly been thrilled when she received this assignment. The Chief had to pull some strings to put Daoud in charge of the brigade, and her as their assigned healer. Why would their boss go to such lengths to keep an eye on a group of soldiers greener than grass, neither Salvia nor Daoud knew. They could do nothing about it. They just had to obey.

Not for the first time she wondered why she hadn't found herself some cute girl to settle down with. As soon as the familiar doubt reared its ugly head, fog filled her mind. Wincing, Salvia shook her head. There was no time to lose mulling over this. She had a job to do.

Some of their kids were still raring to go, while others just flopped down on the benches, winded out. One of the latter happened to be Salvia's favourite recruit. The teenager was reasonably skilled, and he was quiet, very quiet. Salvia was sure the kid's aloofness was only born out of shyness rather than indifference as all of the other cadets believed; she could just feel it. He reminded Salvia of someone, although she could not tell who. As such, whenever she locked eyes with him, she was always filled with a inexplicable sense of nostalgia.

Salvia sat down next to him, letting out a long sigh. The blond teenager glanced at her before continuing to rub the battered sword he carried everywhere with a rag. He knew he had to take care of his weapons. Salvia couldn't say the other kids did the same. He had a good head on his shoulders; she liked that about him.

"So," Salvia prompted, "you did well, today."

The kid shrugged. "Not particularly."

Salvia lightly punched him in the shoulder. "You obviously know how to handle a sword. Where d'you learn to do it?"

"My dad felt like hiring a tutor," the boy replied. "Then I joined the city militia."

"You ever got in a real fight?"

The kid grew tense, and Salvia suddenly felt like the worst person imaginable. _Nice going, there, idiot._ She could almost imagine someone rolling their eyes at her. She wondered why.

"Sorry, kiddo," she said, sheepishly. "Didn't mean to dredge up bad memories. Say, you know what? How about you go with the rest of us for a drink?"

She wasn't surprised when he shook his head.

"I'm underage," was all he replied.

Salvia laughed out loud. "Dunno where you're from, but here in the capital, it doesn't matter much. But I get it if you don't want to. If you ever feel like it, just give us a holler. I'll be happy to pay you a drink for the occasion."

The kid—his name was Stocke, Salvia remembered—gave her a forced smile. She fought an urge to mess up his hair; she used to do this to someone, but she just couldn't remember who. Again, an invisible hand squeezed her heart.

"You did good today, kid. See you top of the morning tomorrow!"

Stocke's smile became warmer, and he stood up to give a salute. Salvia returned the gesture with a grin.

* * *

They reported to the Chief the very same night. They met him atop the fortification that separated the first and second wards; he seemed lost in his thoughts, his eyes fixed on the sun as it disappeared beneath the horizon.

"Chief," was Daoud's only greeting. The man turned and dipped his head in reply.

"How are your recruits?" the Chief said. As always, his voice was punctuated by some sort of hidden mischief.

Daoud exchanged a glance with Salvia. She shrugged.

"I wouldn't call them fine soldiers, sir," Daoud said. "There's some raw talent there, but nothing exceptional."

"Really?" the Chief replied. "None of them show any potential?" He seemed oddly insistent.

Daoud shot a look at Salvia again. She mouthed _'I really have no idea,'_ and shrugged.

"No, there's none," Daoud said in a careful tone. "They're your average cadets. Just kids."

"Oh." The Chief appeared disappointed. "Keep an eye on them, will you? The youth are the key to our future. I need to find some new recruits. I need fresh blood."

For some reason, the last sentence made Salvia shudder. It sounded so _wrong_ coming from him.

"Got it, Chief," Daoud answered.

Their subsequent meetings were similar. The Chief would ask how the cadets were shaping up, then go silent whenever Daoud would reply that they weren't anything special. It didn't take long for Salvia to realize that her old friend was growing suspicious of their boss' intentions.

"Do you think he's gone senile?" Daoud asked one day, while they watched the kids as they trained. "He's obviously not all together. Something feels... _off_."

"I don't know." Salvia frowned; her head hurt whenever she thought of their mercenary days. "I can't remember how he was before."

Daoud gave a grunt in annoyance. His eyes wandered to where two of the cadets had gone into a squabble over who had won their last bout.

"I know!" Salvia suddenly said, getting a raised eyebrow from Daoud. "Did the Chief ever say if he's got family?"

"He never told us," Daoud replied. "He might."

"What if there's a relative of his in our unit? Like a bastard who never got the chance to meet daddy dearest?"

Daoud snorted. "You read too much of these terrible ten coppers novels, Sal." He then jumped to his feet to pound into submission the two boys who had gotten into a fight. The others burst into laughter. For his part, Stocke did not laugh, only shaking his head with a roll of the eyes.

Salvia spent the following days extracting family secrets from her fellow soldiers for each of the wounds she healed. Most spoke of mothers who sent them a letter each week and fathers who had fought to keep their eyes dry as their baby left for the war. Others grew more somber as she broached the topic, Stocke being among the latter. The whole endeavour made Salvia feel more than a little foolish.

The Chief's true objective therefore stayed elusive. "There is truly no potential recruit?" he kept asking, getting more and more agitated with each of Daoud and Salvia's new reports. "No one?"

Daoud would then answer to the negative, prompting the Chief to finish with the same words every time. "Keep them safe," he'd order. "Keep them safe with your lives if you must."

Something about the way he'd say that always sent shivers down Salvia's spine.

* * *

Five months later, the cadets graduated with the highest of honours and were promptly sent off to be butchered.

That was the only term Salvia could use to describe the process. Once, she had been in their shoes, but as a mercenary, she could at least say to her commanding officers to stick it where it didn't shine. These poor saps couldn't. They were ordered to guard the retreat of a group of older, more valuable soldiers, and so they ended up as cannon fodder.

The Chief was even more fidgety than usual when they were finally allowed back into the capital with the surviving members of their unit. They had barely set a foot into Castle Alistel when they were brought to his office for a detailed account of the battle. The Chief's mouth tightened and tightened as their tale went on.

"We ended up with a couple of Granorgites on our left flank," Daoud said while Salvia kept to the side, the memories of the carnage still imprinted on her mind. "If it wasn't for that kid Stocke—"

The Chief's eyes flashed. "That kid Stocke? Who is he? What did he do?"

Salvia bit down her lip. The event still haunted her dreams. _That stupid kid! Jumping in front of me like that!_ Sometimes, the boy in her nightmares was different; his hair was a shade darker, and he wielded a bow rather than a sword. There was something upsetting about the image, but Salvia had no idea why.

"One of our better soldiers," Daoud said. "He got hurt pretty bad when he got struck by an arrow." He glanced at Salvia, waiting for her to continue.

"An arrow meant for me," she said, her voice thick with guilt.

Salvia had no idea how it happened, but the Chief was suddenly out of his chair and standing right in front of her, his face hovering inches away. She stepped back, the hair on her arms rising.

"He was shot?" the old man said in a hoarse voice. "Because of you?"

Salvia couldn't swallow the lump that had settled down in her throat. "H-He was. But he's alright, now, I treated his wounds. He's alright, sir, I mean it."

The Chief bared his teeth, a hiss escaping his mouth. "You led him to danger." His words were heavy with condemnation. "He could have been killed because of you." He stalked closer to her, his red eyes boring into hers.

Salvia drew back _._ "Back off! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Chief," Daoud growled from behind her, "get the hell away from her." His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword.

"What's your problem?" Salvia continued, skin crawling in disgust and anger. "What's your deal with the kid?" She stood her ground, snarling at this old man—at this old _freak_ —who used to be someone she respected. _I'll keep that kid_ _safe_ , she was thinking. _I won't fail him like I failed..._ Salvia's chest clenched again. _Like I failed who?_

"Stocke is _my_ responsibility." The Chief grabbed a book from his desk. He stroked its violet pages with slow, cautious movements. "I won't leave his life in such incompetent hands."

"You're being a major creep here, boss," Salvia said, adrenaline now coursing through her veins. The sudden thought that she had to get out of here to warn Stocke—of what she had no idea, but if this old bastard didn't count as a threat, she wasn't sure what _did_ —stirred in her mind. Daoud must have felt the same; he pushed her behind him, sword in his hands.

"You shouldn't have done that," was all the Chief said.

A light violently flashed, and Salvia moaned, shielding her eyes. The violet glow pulsated in front of her, enveloping Daoud's body. A sound pounded in her head— _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_. She covered her ears with her hands. Her eardrums seemed like they were about to burst. _Make it stop!_ she wanted to scream. _Make it stop!_

In front of her, Daoud _exploded._

Salvia shrieked. A gust of— _sand!_ all that remained of Daoud was _sand!_ —twirled around her. The pain brought her to her knees, leaving her sobbing. The sand was getting in her nose, in her ears, in her mouth, and the light stabbed her eyes like hundreds of tiny needles. A few tears flew from her face as the life was ripped out of her; they fell to the ground in soft, gentle droplets, mingling with the dust her soulless body left behind.

* * *

"That was... _despicable_ , Heiss."

Heiss nonchalantly found the boy's gaze.

"I've killed people before," he said, almost sneering. "What makes those two different?"

"Nothing makes them different," Lippti answered. When Heiss gave a loud bark of laughter in response, she frowned. Apparently his interpretation clashed with her original meaning.

"Indeed!" Heiss said, flaring a grin. "They're all the same." _Kings, mercenaries, soldiers, peasants. They're all just humans, after all_. _Weak, ungrateful,_ _insignificant humans._

"They are," Teo agreed dryly. "And all of their lives are as equally precious."

Heiss' smile soured. "And yet the lives of the people who died to let them live are not. Is that what you mean to tell me?"

"Heiss—" Teo began in a sharp warning.

"Save your breath," Heiss said. "I know all your lies by heart." He dusted off his coat; a little sand had found its way into the creases of the fabric. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go. I still have a lot to do."

Teo and Lippti's silent contempt escorted him all the way out of Historia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, readers, followers and reviewers, for sticking up with me so far. Also, a huuuge thank you for my beta, whose ideas saved my butt in the latter part of the chapter.


	21. Chapter 19 - Inevitability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

Heiss was strangely pleased that Stocke stood out so clearly amongst the recruits that made up Alistel's new line of infantry. Skilled, clever, disciplined, each of his successive superiors said of him, his deeds earning him commendation after commendation. They called him their best unit, their trump card, their lucky charm, even. And rightly so; every detachment to which he belonged always miraculously achieved the objectives they'd been given, against odds that often seemed impossible to outside eyes.

But out of battle, Stocke's fellow soldiers sang a different tune. _Stuck-up bastard, arse-kisser, goddamn cheat_ , the nastier tongues countered, their whispers hinting at the presence of some foul play. No one could clearly advance so fast through the ranks in such a short time, insidious rumours suggested. A dozen theories circulated in the mess hall and the infantry barracks, but none seemed to truly fit the bizarre set of events that had led the young man to his current position. The only thing that was sure was that he collected enemies and admirers as easily as one gained bruises in battle.

Stocke appeared as if he couldn't care less. They had a war to win, he repeated to his comrades, they had no time to waste on sordid tales and petty rivalries. In a way, this inflexible commitment to his duty (stubbornness, some instead called it) only served to reinforce the sharp divide he left in his wake. Yet, Stocke took all of this in his stride, never allowing the admiring gazes and envious stares to lead him astray from the path he'd set for himself.

And from the shadows, Heiss continued to watch his life unfold.

They had not met again, he and the boy. Heiss found he had a delicate game to play, one that required caution and restraint. He could not allow his emotions to run rampant as they once had in the past. He could not permit another failure like the one that had cost him the services of Daoud and Salvia. And he could certainly not let Stocke make the mistake of leaving his life in the hands of the wrong people, as Ernst had once learned too late to his sorrow.

But then again, Heiss believed this to be very unlikely. Unlike Ernst, Stocke was not subject to the murderous impulses of his father or the corrupting influence of that weak-willed sister of his. The blinders they'd put over his eyes had been lifted, and so, free to see the world for what it was, he could finally rise to claim what had been denied to him – what should have been rightfully his.

Or so he would, if only he could find it in himself to just _stay alive_.

The time when Stocke injured himself to save Salvia from an incoming arrow was only an inkling of what was to come. Once, an out-of-breath courier rushed into the castle to deliver news of an ambush. Heiss, hidden by the Vanish spell, stalked him to where he was being debriefed by his superiors, where he told them of how one brave soldier— _Corporal Stocke, without him, I wouldn't even be here, oh god, how could this happen?_ —held the line so most of his unit could escape. Another time, Heiss sneaked into the infirmary to find his nephew beset by fever after an infection had settled in one of his legs; he'd died screaming while the medics had attempted to saw it off. The sight had lingered in Heiss' nightmares quite a long time afterwards.

Through each new jump Heiss made in time, the boy evaded certain death, but every narrow escape gave birth to new scars... and new misgivings. Where Ernst had been carefree in a naive but endearing way, Stocke was jumpy, regarding each smile, each friendly handshake like a potential threat. In a way, this did work in Heiss' favour. Before, Stocke's muddy reputation hadn't been quite enough to drive all away from him. Now, the gossips at the barracks were all about the skillful but oh-so-cold swordsman with the red scarf. And so, one by one, the number of people willing to engage with him dwindled down.

"I don't understand your reasoning," Teo once told Heiss. "How is this a positive result?"

"Aren't you entangling yourself further, Heiss?" Lippti asked. "You may think you can mold the world as you see fit, but your actions might have unintended effects. Because Stocke's memories still ripple across the different timelines, he only will—"

Heiss hadn't been interested in what she was saying. He was out of Historia before she could even finish her sentence.

Still, what he did hear gnawed at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was indeed well past the time for careful deliberation. Perhaps it was instead time to get into the fray.

* * *

Heiss thought Stocke's birthday would go unnoticed. He was surprised instead when two of the boy's friends—the last friends he still had, really—took him out to the city, ostensibly to celebrate. He was even more amused when he realized said friends were the little sister of the late Director Rowan (Sonja, he believed she was called) and the grunt to whom was grafted the Thaumatech Gauntlet that had quite possibly cost the professor his life. Was it some sort of farce the universe was playing on him? Or was his path—and thus Ernst's path—always fated to intersect with the same people in every iteration of the world?

The two dragged Stocke to a pub somewhere in the first ward of Alistel, where they proceeded to prod him into accepting a mug of the foul thing the Alistellians passed as ale. From his darkened corner, Heiss noticed the young man was barely touching his drink. His friend, the enormous oaf who was apparently named Rosch, managed to finish three fills of the stuff in the time Stocke took to finish one third of his beverage. After a while, the young man excused himself from their table, citing a need for fresh air. The girl called Sonja patted his arm sympathetically, and the great brute slapped him in the back, earning himself a glower from Heiss from the back of the tavern.

Heiss soon followed after Stocke, loudly exhaling in relief as he set foot outside the tavern. He had grown fond of the view out here; from atop of the tallest of the first ward's fortifications, one could clearly see the silvers and blues of the mountains up north against the stark grey of the city. Their outlines were sharper than they had been when Heiss had first moved to Alistel, some decades ago. For some years, his eyesight had steadily grown better. Was it a consequence of the incredible amount of Mana that had settled within his body? It could be, Heiss thought. If so, the usage of the Black Chronicle had possibly even accelerated the process.

Heiss sighed, suddenly forlorn. He had been living in Alistel far longer than he had lived in his birth country, yet he'd never gotten used to the ugliness of its industry-filled landscape or the obnoxiousness of its people. He terribly missed the green expanses of Granorg and the quiet stillness of the Cygnan desert. Only here, atop the fortification, could he find the same sort of peace. He leaned against the railing, closing his eyes; the autumn wind was cool against his cheeks. He cracked one eye open and looked to his left. Stocke, who had similarly propped himself against the metal bar, had stiffened slightly. Several minutes passed where they just listened to the low hum of the evening life of the streets below. Heiss continued to watch over the horizon, waiting for Stocke to make the first move.

"Are you following me?" Stocke's voice finally came in a curt accusation.

Heiss turned to him, eyes round and guileless. "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you following me?" Stocke repeated. "You were in the tavern too."

"I was," Heiss said. "So were a dozen other patrons."

Stocke's eyes narrowed to mere slits above his scarf. "A dozen other patrons weren't also in Alistel Castle with us a few hours ago."

Heiss couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Apparently, we both had business at the same places twice in a row. What an amazing coincidence. I do fail to see why you find this so strange, however."

"I know who you are," Stocke replied. His body was tense, almost as if he expected a fight to break out.

Heiss feigned a smile. "You know who I am? Did I meet you before... ah!" He snapped his fingers together. "You! I remember you! I saved you back in Reginn!"

 _I met you when you were just a baby in your mother's arms. I saw you die time after time in front of my eyes while I was helpless to do anything. I held your still-warm corpse more often than I can count._ The thoughts had crept into his mind unwanted; Heiss had to bite down his tongue to chase them away.

"Yes," Stocke said, his rude tone bringing Heiss back to the present moment. "You're Heiss." He gave a significant pause before adding, "the leader of the Special Intelligence division."

Heiss blinked, in genuine surprise, before giving another forced laugh. "Ah, I remember now that my apothecary persona didn't seem to fool you back then. I recall being so disappointed that you saw through my disguise."

"Your identity is not much of a secret," was Stocke's biting reply. "Most people in the castle know who you are. Isn't that a bad thing actually? Since you're essentially..." Frowning, he took a sweeping glance at their surroundings.

"A bad thing? No, no, I actually don't mind people knowing who I am." As Stocke stared at him, clearly unimpressed, Heiss continued, grinning. "I know what I'm doing. I wouldn't have been very successful in my line of work otherwise."

Heiss could almost feel the scowl in Stocke's voice. "Then, when you offered me a job..."

"I was perfectly serious. When the Granorgite forces attacked Reginn, you fought against adversaries with twice your age and experience and survived. I'd say that's an impressive level of skill."

"Or luck."

"You sell yourself too short, my boy," Heiss said grimly. "You must know that I am not one to be lavish with my praise." He heard the hinges of a door creaking open behind them, and a male voice calling out Stocke's name. Before the boy could head back inside, Heiss came nearer, forcing his gaze into Stocke's blue-green eyes; he couldn't help but feel a thrill of satisfaction when his nephew met his stare without flinching. "What I said back then stands true even now. Keep it in mind if you ever feel the need for a change of pace." _Or if you ever feel the need to repay your debt to me,_ Heiss added inwardly. From his pensive frown, Stocke seemed to have understood the hidden meaning perfectly.

Without any other words, Heiss left the boy to his musings. As he walked away, he felt the empty stare of Stocke's friend on him for a moment; he brushed it off with a chuckle and a smile.

* * *

Stocke came to him only two days later. For once, Heiss was pleased with his nephew's aggravating tendency to let himself be driven by an unfounded sense of guilt. Something else had prompted the boy to come forward, however. Heiss couldn't exactly tell what it was, but it was noticeable from his tone, from the way his eyes darted to the side, that Stocke wanted to join Specint—as Heiss' division was now known—not just out of a desire to pay back Heiss for saving his life almost three years ago. When Heiss questioned him on the subject, Stocke set his jaw tight and evaded his gaze. His reaction left Heiss perplexed. He'd seen similar responses from soldiers who had just returned from their first foray into combat.

Who had just experienced for the first time the horror of having to slaughter and maim to preserve their own lives.

The realization was sobering, but it was too late to go back now. It did not matter. Heiss had learned to live with his nightmares; Stocke would too.

* * *

And so Specint found itself with the best agent it would ever possess in its short history.

Heiss wished he could say he had expected this, but in truth, he hadn't. Ernst had always been efficient in every task he set his heart into, but Stocke seemed to be, well, _born_ for this job.

The position kept him out of curious eyes... and out of the cruel hands of fate. And so, bit by bit, the remnants of Ernst's gullibility eroded away. A soldier could delude himself by saying that his work was just and honourable, however despicable it truly was. A figure who worked in the shadows and plucked the strings of the world for their own benefits, however, could not.

Heiss kept the boy close at hand, never allowing him too far away from his sight. He was soon presented with a dilemma, however, when he realized just how useful Stocke's innate understanding of the Granorgite culture could be for infiltration purposes. In the end, he decided to let the boy unleash his abilities to the maximum of his potential. _I can always rein him back if the need arises, after all..._

Stocke usually received his mission details through handlers, but this time, Heiss delivered the briefing himself.

"You will get further instructions after you pass the border," Heiss finished, staring at the young man from over his steepled hands.

"I see," Stocke said. "Is there a reason why you are so scarce on the details?"

"If they knew of it, the high brass would consider this mission a waste of time and resources." Heiss lowered his voice. "It instead concerns, _ah_ , a pet project that is something of an obsession for General Hugo." He tried to give Stocke a mocking grin to show just what he thought of the subject, but his efforts were interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. Stocke eyed him warily.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

"This is no trouble. You should get going. You have a long way ahead of you." Several coughs grated at his throat again, and he winced as a pain flared in his chest. _"Go."_

Was it concern that shone in Stocke's eyes just now? It had been too fleeting for Heiss to be sure, but the very hint kept him warm well after the young man had left his office.

* * *

Updates from Stocke came sporadically afterwards. The deeper he got into enemy territory, the less frequent his reports became. Behind him, the Alistellian army managed to break through the Granorgite line of defense, their movements aided by the military's ever-increasing use of Specint's intel. Still, Hugo was not yet pleased, as Heiss learned one night while they met with the new director of the Thaumatech Division.

"When will that weapon of yours be finished, Fennel?" he asked Rowan's successor. Unlike the late Professor, the man was old and bald, and he moved about in a Thaumatech contraption that was even stranger that Rowan's mechanized chair.

Fennel's multiple chins sagged under his scowl. "It'll be ready when it'll be ready!" Even as he answered Hugo's question, the man looked at Heiss from the corner of his eyes. Heiss knew Fennel would gladly have him thrown out of all of his meetings with Hugo. "It is still too dangerous to use! Until we can find a component to stabilize the flow of Mana—"

"We have found a component to stabilize the flow of Mana," Hugo interrupted him. "I had come to believe that the Satyros' sword provided that service..."

"No, no, no!" Fennel said. "The sword provides a means to produce the Mana, yes, but not to control it! I _know_ the Imperials created some means to stabilize the influx of Mana, and I refuse to believe we can't repeat this feat. Especially if we get our hands on some of their technologies." He gave a haughty side-glance to Heiss. "Hadn't some of your agents hinted that the Granorgite royal family kept under their castle a vault full of Imperial artifacts?"

Heiss had to contain his laughter as he recalled the Royal Hall. _Is he imagining some sort of treasure hoard under Castle Granorg?_ His amusement soon ran out. It had been tiresome enough to make those two understand that the Thaumatech weapon they wanted to devise would need a certain part to be able to function. It had been even more tedious to plant the idea that the item in question unfortunately happened to be in the hands of the Granorgite royal family. Had Heiss been too direct, they would surely have found his knowledge of obscure Thaumatechnology to be suspicious. But had he been too vague, Hugo and Fennel would have instead never understood the crucial role the Etherion would play in the realization of their objective.

"A vault?" Heiss said, eventually. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But it is certain that they do cling unto some of their ancestors' relics, if only for sentiment's sake. The crown has banned the usage of Thaumatech for almost three generations, after all. Even the brightest of their scholars wouldn't know what to do with these technologies." He cleared his throat and winced; he had been plagued with some sort of sickness ever since Stocke had left some weeks ago.

"How strange," Hugo seemed to muse aloud. "They could have won this war a thousand times over if only they had pursued their ancestors' researches. What made them stop?"

"Bah! I won't look a gift horse in the mouth," was Fennel's reply. "Just keep them out of my way, I say!"

Heiss gave them a slight bow. "I assure the both of you that my agents will help the best they can. And in the end, wouldn't that be amusing if some technology we'd whisked away from Granorg ended up being responsible for their doom?" The smile he'd worn as he spoke was marred by a bout of coughing. The two other men stared at him with indifferent gazes.

"I hope these words are not wind," Hugo eventually growled. "For both of your sakes, I hope to see some results soon."

 _Don't worry, General,_ Heiss answered Hugo within his mind, thinking of a jewel he had tasked a certain blond-haired boy to find. _I aim to please._

* * *

Two months later, the war came to a startling stop, a few days shy of the date that would mark the one-year anniversary of Stocke's service in Specint.

Heiss hadn't quite expected this moment to come so soon. The timing was definitely not perfect—Hugo and Fennel's little side-project was far from being complete, after all—but the premature end of the conflict did bring one benefit.

That of delivering the once-heavily guarded members of the royal family of Granorg within hand's reach in Alistel.

The Alistellian army had ransacked Castle Granorg when they had taken the capital, but the object Heiss searched for happened to be on the queen's very person. When they brought the pathetic form of Victor's widow to the gibbet erected in the centre of Noah Square, Heiss could see that she still wore her husband's crown. The Etherion gleamed violet in the afternoon light, catching Heiss' gaze; while the crowd seemed to focus on the queen's tear-stained face as they threw jeers and rotten fruits at her, Heiss only had eyes for the jewel encrusted in her crown. _Does she even know what it is?_ He gave a dark chuckle. _I doubt it._

Coughs racked Heiss' body; he clutched his chest, wheezing, before searching for the figures of Protea and Eruca once more. As Heiss got a glimpse off the horde of people gathered below, he silently thanked whoever had thought to put him with the rest of the higher-ups in the pavilion next to the raised platform where the two nooses were drawn. His head swam enough, and something told him that being stuck in that crowd would only have made it worse.

The crowd grew to a frenzy when Hugo, clad in his silver armour, climbed up the dais. He saluted the cloaked figure sitting on the balcony overlooking the location where the two remaining members of the royal family would be executed. The veiled man raised a feeble hand in response, as the late Noah would have done. The Alistellians cheered for their Prophet, not realizing that Hugo had played them all like fools.

"No!" Queen Protea cried, her voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. "No, no, _no!_ "

Beside her, Eruca was the picture of composure, although it was evident she had been subject to some misfortunes before. Her short hair was caked with dried blood, and a trail of red dripped from a still-open wound near her mouth. When the masked executioner moved to grab her stepmother by the hair as Hugo rattled the list of their crimes, her pale eyes stubbornly stared ahead.

Finally, Hugo's judgement boomed over the shouts of the people _(Death! Death!)_. The executioner raised a pair of shears that he thrust through Protea's dark curls. The disgraced queen screamed and screamed as he hacked away at her hair. A few of the officers near Heiss pursed their mouths: was it from disgust or disapproval? This punishment was not typical of the ones used by the Alistellians; the idea had been Hugo's. By the time the executioner was finished with her, the woman's sobs had become soft and quiet. Free from his hands, she crawled and grabbed the remains of her once beautiful hair, giving another shriek of anguish when the crowd began to pelt her with fruits once more.

Next to her, Eruca sat silent as the executioner pulled at her scalp to subject her to the same torment.

Heiss turned away, a strange queasiness settling in the pit of his stomach. His gaze wandered through the crowd and—there! That figure in red! Could that be—?

 _Stocke!_ Heiss wanted to shout. The young man was swiftly making his way through the throng of people cheering for his sister's death. Heiss hadn't been told he had come back from Granorg. _What could he possibly be doing?_

Heiss moved to intercept the boy, only to be seized by painful, throaty coughs again. When he finally managed to regain his composure, it was too late; Stocke was standing a mere foot's length away from the platform where the two nooses waited for Eruca and the queen.

Stocke shouted something; Eruca raised weak eyes to him, and she struggled in her captor's grip. Panting, Heiss tried to move forward, finding himself instead falling to his knees in a crumbled heap. His heartbeat was pounding in his temples, and he had to fight to stay conscious.

A collective gasp resounded in the air. _What is happening? What is Stocke doing?_ An officer helped Heiss to his feet. Through eyes blurry with tears of pain, Heiss could barely see the commotion. Several people had climbed the dais, weapons in hand. They were soon met by a group of Hugo's soldiers.

Heiss finally managed to call out Stocke's name, though the word was buried under another bout of coughing. An unknown voice sounded in Heiss' ear, ringing in his tympanum.

"Oh my god! Is that blood? You're coughing blood! We should get you to a healer!"

Heiss dimly realized that there were red spots on his hand. With a hiss, he wrestled himself out of the man's grasp. He limped to the edge, heart almost stopping when he caught sight of the crimson form of Stocke standing in front of his sister, sword unsheathed. The image imprinted on his retina as he was dragged inside the castle.

* * *

Heiss was quickly admitted to the infirmary in Alistel Castle.

He segued in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the healers pacing around him. The mention of 'pneumonia' floated to his ears, but the idea was so ludicrous he barely paid it any mind. _What is happening? Where is Stocke? Is he—?_

What followed were days, possibly weeks of agony and chilling dreams brought about by the fever. The healers confined him to bed, the infirmary ward becoming almost like a prison for him. By the time he finally found himself with enough strength to escape, he knew enough to know that this timeline was dead in the water. Very few details of what had happened in Noah Square had filtered to Heiss' attention, but what he had heard, however, showed little promise. When he managed to get back to his office, he directly headed to his desk, where the Black Chronicle was waiting for him.

The stillness of Historia was more than welcome after the chaos of the past few days. His breathing still choppy and hoarse, Heiss dropped to his knees, nearly losing himself to the darkness again in the process. His head seemed ready to split open at the seams.

"You have returned, Heiss," Lippti's voice took him out of his daze.

The Black Chronicle was lying open in front of him. The letters describing his latest failures glowed on the violet pages. With great effort, Heiss snapped the old tome shut.

"Where do you intend to go now?"

Heiss' gaze veered toward the twins. Once, their features had been so blurry he had only been able to make out their intent from their words, but now he could see the very contempt they held for him. He saw it in the fold that creased between their brows, in the tightening of their mouths. It was as if the Mana he had gained with the Black Chronicle had literally opened his eyes to their true natures.

"Your plans have gone amiss again, Heiss."

That was Teo. Ever since the day when Ernst had been murdered by his father, Heiss never allowed himself to fall for the twins' fake pleas and so-called advice. This time, however, there was something in Teo's voice that sent shivers of rage down his spine.

"Is that so?" he said, keeping his anger to hushed tones. "Does that please you? Do you take some measure of amusement in seeing me fail time after time?"

Once, Heiss was sure Lippti would have come up with some platitude to calm him down. Now, even she was silent. She truly was as despicable as her brother.

"It does not please us, no," Teo finally said. "We are your guides."

"We must protect you," Lippti added.

"And we must believe in you no matter what," Teo completed.

"Believe in me? You, _believing in me?!"_ Laughter threatened to escape Heiss' mouth, resulting in more coughing.

"The White Chronicle has awakened to you for a reason," Lippti said. "No matter what you think, you were—and still are—a perfect candidate for the Ritual."

Her response left Heiss so baffled he could not speak for some moment. The anger that had been building up within his chest finally rippled out of him in bouts of dark, joyless laughter.

"You're still holding out on this?" he managed to snarl between his guffaws. "On me accepting to do my duty and die like a proper little Sacrifice?"

"You weren't the first to be so difficult, Heiss," Lippti softly said. "Yet you've proved again and again that when the cup will pass to you, you will gladly drink from it. I'm surprised you haven't realized this, in fact."

Heiss stared at her, unable to form words. _That presumptuous little chit!_ Eventually, he thought back on her previous words.

"Protect me?" he told the girl, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it. _What good is it to ask? What lies are they going to feed me now?_

"Someone has to watch over you since you do such a poor job of it," Teo began.

"Indeed," his sister said, nodding. "That pneumonia would have killed you, you know."

Heiss let out something that resembled both a snort and a cough. "You sound so _certain_ of that." He ran his fingers on his face; his cheeks were still hot to the touch.

"We are," was Lippti's response, "because in another timeline it did kill you."

Heiss blinked, not understanding what she meant. "W-What foolish nonsense is this?"

"Didn't you realize? You aren't the only one devoting their existence to maintaining the life of another, Heiss."

It all became so simple to him. "The Sacrifices... they never die of natural illnesses or accident, don't they? Is it because of you two?"

The twins' silence only proved his claim.

"We have watched you pass away many times as well, Heiss," Lippti said. "One of our duties as guardians is to cull from existence any timeline where you die from natural causes or accidents. It is no... easy task."

The gears were turning in Heiss' head, but a feeling in his guts told him the twins would not elaborate more on the subject. Instead, he forced the conversation back on something else Lippti had said that had caught his attention. "You call me Heiss, now," he told the girl. "I hadn't noticed it before, but you do."

"Isn't that your name, now?" she replied evenly. "Nobody calls you by your birth name anymore. I won't go against your wish."

"I see," Heiss mused aloud. "It's true that everyone who knew me by that name would be unable to recognize me. Either that, or they are dead. Like Victor." He couldn't help but sound smug saying the dead man's name.

"Or Ernst," Teo said.

The two words crushed Heiss' thorax like a hammer. His eyes snapped to where the twins sat, and his breathing grew even more labourious. Dark spots were appearing in his vision again.

"Ernst is not dead!" he shouted, fighting to say the words. "He's still alive because of me! I _saved_ him. He is not dead!"

"You did kill him," was Lippti's response. Her violet eyes gleamed at him, dark with condemnation. "You erased Ernst from existence. The boy wearing his face, this boy who is slowly growing to hate you, is not Ernst, and you know it."

Heiss let out an inarticulate shriek of rage. All he had done was save Ernst from his father's clutches—and from the twins' twisted plans. To keep the boy alive, it had been necessary to purge from his mind the disgusting ideas that those who wanted him dead had planted within his brain. _A_ _ll I want is for him to see as I see—_

"—but how could he, having never lived the same life as me?" Heiss completed his thought almost sotto voce. "Once, I was like him. Once, I believed all of your lies." He shook his head, slowly at first, then more feverishly. "Yes, _yes_... I wonder what would happen if he could see the extent of your treachery with his own eyes?" _What would happen if I could extend your protection to him? Without you even realizing you are playing in my hand..._

Teo and Lippti exchanged a glance, one that Heiss wasn't able to interpret. Still, it wasn't important. He knew what to do. Yes, and it would help him kill two birds with one stone. The energy of the Black Chronicle rumbled under his fingertips, almost as if the artifact was agreeing with him.

"I said it before. What he needs to do is _live._ Live and learn and see what the world is going to give him in exchange for his sacrifice." _Nothing_ , the ghosts of past bearers of the White Chronicle seemed to whisper in his ears. They longed for another champion to avenge their meaningless deaths. One to carry their legacy even after Heiss had long passed.

"What do you mean?" Teo asked. His tone was cautiously neutral.

Heiss lowered his gaze to the old tome in his hands, remembering another book that had been his sole companion through days filled with blood and fear and loneliness.

He raised his face to the twins and kept his voice cool and low. "This isn't for you to know." _He's the legacy of all of us Sacrifices. Of course he should have the heirloom that ties all of us together. Of course he should have the power to shape the world as he sees fit. He was born to rule._

_He was born to be my successor all along._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thank you readers (and my poor beta) for sticking with me so far. Stay tuned for more!


	22. Chapter 20 - Plagues and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since from now on I'll be extensively using/paraphrasing some of the game's script, I feel another disclaimer is in order: everything RH related belongs to Atlus. Some of the quotes here aren't mine either, they were written by the original Japanese scenarist/the English localization team.

The air inside the mine was rank, the heat, suffocating. It had been deserted some years past, during the current king of Cygnus' war of conquest. When Garland's troops had reached the quarry, the slave workers had risen against their masters, slaughtering them before joining the Desert Tiger's ranks. Their departure had prompted a few monsters to settle into the abandoned shafts; the mine had been known for producing copper, but Heiss remembered finding a few Mana crystals when he had been forced to work in its depths. The warm magical energy emitted by the crystals must have been what had lured the beasts inside the subterranean maze, he supposed.

The pack leader was one of such creatures. Behind him, his fellow basilisks sniffed and growled. In response, the pack leader raised his snout. _A new smell._ From the depths of his mind another voice supplied two other words: _Human smells._

His limbs moved of their own accord. A grunt of discord sounded from behind. The pack leader turned to hiss at the one responsible. As expected, it was the one with the large scar over her eye. She whined as he silently stared, and backed away, tucking her tail between her legs.

She had earned her scar only a few weeks ago. The pack leader had come back late from his hunt, and somehow, the others thought he had smelled strange... _different_. At the sight of him, they'd flared their teeth and flattened their ears on their head. _Bad meat,_ they seemed to say. _Dead meat_. They all had taken a few cautious steps backwards, deeply unsettled.

The pack leader had retaliated by lunging at the nearest basilisk to tear his throat out. The young female next to him had yelped and jumped to protect her brother, only to earn herself a claw in the eye. They had learned their lesson then, and had stayed subdued ever since. The voice inside the pack leader's head had been pleased.

Odd sounds came from a shaft near them. _Voices_ , the word came into the pack leader's mind. _Human voices. Find them._ The pack leader obeyed the unsaid order.

One of the humans gasped when the head basilisk turned the corner, teeth bared. The woman drew a long, claw-like item from her back. _A sword,_ the voice said. _Yes, they are the ones I wanted you to find._ The rest of the pack hovered nearby, unsure. There were too many humans, and they wielded fire and metal and sharp, long sticks. Only the pack leader stood unafraid. _Attack,_ came the command. _Attack the humans._ His body leaped forward, claws out. He was soon followed by the rest of his pack.

"Who's up for a little monster bashing?" one human called out merrily. He soon brought his claw— _sword, it's a sword_ —upon one of the pack's members. The basilisk gave a terrible shriek—yet the pack leader couldn't bring himself to care. _Kill them, except the two, the two that I need._

"Stay focused!" another human yelled back. She twirled a long pole in her hands. _A spear. She is the one, protect her_ , the voice inside the pack leader's head instructed. _Her and the short human boy._ The pack leader's gaze found the human in question; he was so small he could have been a cub. His hands were glowing green. The head basilisk could feel the Mana flowing from them even from here. _Him, and the girl_ , the voice repeated. _I need them alive._

There was a screech as another human plunged her sword into the belly of the scarred female basilisk. The pack leader ignored her plight, stepping to the side to evade another blow. The humans acted nonchalant, even gleeful. It was only a little side-job, the basilisk could hear them saying, something to squeeze in a bit of money before their next big gig. _Mercenaries,_ the voice scoffed. _Still as cocky as in my days._

The members of the basilisk's pack were dying around him, one by one. Their fates left him strangely indifferent; he only waited for his next instructions.

 _The support beam,_ the voice finally said. _Break the support beam. Kill the humans. But keep the spear girl and the healer boy alive._

The pack leader had no choice but to comply. His body had not been his own for a long time, after all. He ran headfirst into the support beam, his skull breaking under the force of the blow. The dead meat underneath the bone barely responded to the pain that rushed in afterwards.

The ground and the ceiling began to shake.

"Watch out!" a human voice screamed.

"Oh, god!" another cried, "it's a cave-in! Let's get out of here!""

"Run! _Run!_ "

The dead eyes of the pack leader could see the two mercenaries who stood the farthest away. A short boy and a woman wearing blue. Her hand was reaching forward in vain. She screamed words that meant nothing to the dying basilisk, words that the voice inside his head recognized as names: _'Merril! Edgar! Irri! Gale! No, no, no!'_

 _Good,_ was the last thought that passed through the pack leader's mind. _That will save me some trouble._ He could feel his energy ebbing away. The ceiling came crashing down soon afterwards, crushing under a thick pile of rocks the last of the mercenaries and the sandy remains of the basilisk whose skin had harboured a presence other than its own...

* * *

Heiss woke up with a start, heart pounding in his ribcage. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of his tent. The last thing he remembered seeing were the silhouettes of the two mercenaries he had been following, black against the orange blaze of the rising sun. Heiss winced as he rubbed his eyes. His dreams pulled him away from reality more and more as of late. Of course, this was to be expected; his mind tended to be more aware of the other beings connected to his soul whenever he was unconscious. This was not troubling, merely irksome. Moreover, the only presence that truly attempted to wrestle itself out of Heiss' control belonged to his first—and most useful—servant. As a distant scream echoed in his brain, reminding him of the man in question, Heiss couldn't help but smirk.

He slowly took in the sounds of the camp as it woke around him. Soldiers made their rounds across the premises, while in the distance he could hear an officer berating some of his subordinates. A couple of healers seemed to be chatting nearby. According to their worried whispers, the camp would soon find itself out of medical supplies.

Heiss dressed himself for the day and ventured outside of his tent, greeted as always by the suspicious glares of the Alistellian soldiers. None of them knew why he happened to be there, and the special authorization he'd been given by the High General hadn't endeared him to them either. Still, Heiss paid them no mind. According to his calculations, the two he had been waiting for would soon attempt to cross the border to Alistel...

His prediction came to pass sometime around midday, when a group of soldiers dragged two very familiar prisoners back to camp. The young woman cursed and twisted in her captors' grasp, but her companion just kept sighing.

"We weren't snooping around!" the young woman cried out. "Dammit, we're not spies! We're not even from Granorg!"

"Raynie, it's no use," the boy told her. In response, the soldier who held him shoved him forward with a rough push.

"Hey! Watch it!" The girl mercenary jabbed a finger at the man, whose uniform marked him as a Sergeant. "Leave him alone, will you?"

"Raynie!"

Heiss stalked over to them. "Well, well, what do we have here?"

His sudden arrival earned him exasperated stares from the soldiers, and a look of puzzlement from the young woman.

"Nothing that would concern you," one of the guards said to Heiss. "We're bringing these two to the Captain for questioning, so you'd best remember to get out of our way."

"Questioning, you say?"

"We caught them loitering not far from the camp—"

"We weren't _loitering_ ," the young woman protested, her black ponytail swinging as she whirled to glare at the Sergeant. "We were just about to cross the border."

"Without any papers to identify you," the soldier said dryly.

"We're Cygnan mercenaries, not spies! We're just looking for a place to buy supplies and get some rest."

At this point, Heiss raised a hand to silence her. "Sergeant, it might so happen that I know these two. I was waiting for them, actually."

The Sergeant's eyes narrowed. "You—"

" _—I_ have dire need of their skills and expertise," Heiss completed. "And so I believe you won't be taking them for questioning to your superior." He tilted his head to the side, giving him a sardonic smile. The Sergeant scowled, motioning to his companions to let the two mercenaries go.

The young woman watched them go with an open mouth before turning to Heiss. She was taller than him by a good head, with a build that was both muscled and curvy. Her sun-kissed skin and almond-shaped eyes made it evident that she was not of Granorgite descent. "You... why did you help us?"

Heiss waved a nonchalant hand. "These sorts are always too zealous for their own good." His eyes then settled on her companion. He was shorter than Heiss—which, as far as the latter was concerned, was as rare of an occurrence as could be—with a shock of mousy brown hair hidden under a green helmet. "If you two were spies, I assure you, I would be aware of it."

The young woman was as dumbfounded as ever. "Huh? What d'you mean?"

"It shouldn't concern you." Heiss directed a pointed look at the girl, and she seemed to understand his meaning. "If you go to your left, you will find a place where you can buy supplies. And a little farther away..." Heiss pointed at the white pavilion erected at the camp's farthest reaches, "You can get someone to look after that leg of yours. I've noticed you tend to lean on it quite a lot." The eyes through which he had seen her limp weren't the ones he was currently using, but she couldn't possibly know this, of course.

The woman mercenary swallowed nervously as her companion—Heiss knew his name was Marco—gave a huff.

"Raynie! I told you you should have let me have a look!"

"I didn't want you to waste any more of your Mana," Raynie replied, her mutter full of guilt. "You've already lost so much of it when you treated my wounds back at the—" Her voice seemed to strangle in her throat.

It was time to slip away, Heiss believed. Leaving the two to argue, he headed back to his quarters, satisfied with this outcome. He was deep in paperwork when one hour later, a familiar voice came from outside his tent.

"Come in," Heiss said. He was not surprised to find the two mercenaries from earlier peeking through the tent flap. The girl, bolder than her comrade, entered first.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," she said, "but you left before we could give you our thanks. Without you, well... I dunno if we would have been able to make it here."

"We're in your debt," the boy named Marco added. He bowed, then poked his friend in the ribs so she would do the same.

"So, yeah, thanks, I guess?" Raynie scratched her head, clearly uncomfortable. Her posture loosened up slightly when Heiss cleared his throat.

"This is all well and good, but... just who in Vainqueur are you and why did you want to cross the border?" Heiss asked, eyebrows raised.

The two exchanged awkward looks.

"We're mercenaries, just as we said before," Raynie said. "Only, well, we've found ourselves out of a job lately, with no team to support us." Her eyes clouded up, and she stopped speaking.

"We thought of looking in Alistel first," the boy Marco continued, "but obviously, we hadn't counted on passing the border being so hard. We've lost all of our equipment recently, so..." He clammed up as well.

Heiss pondered their words—or at least, made it so it appeared so. "I see. Don't be so apologetic, I was in your position once. I was a mercenary as well when I started to work for the Alistellian military. In fact, many officers still consider me to be one."

"What do you mean?" said Raynie.

Heiss hid a smile behind steepled hands. "I will tell you, but at the same time, I'll make you an offer. One of my agents is going to find himself in need of some muscle for his next mission. If your skills prove adequate, I could hire the two of you for this purpose."

Their faces lit up.

"You would hire us? Really?" the boy said, looking every bit a child instead of the battle-hardened mercenary he truly was.

"As I said, only if you both prove to be skillful and capable. After all, you survived, which marks you as necessary to this history." _Two spellcasters with abilities far beyond the average, and with wits that are lacking enough to blindly follow my lead._ They would certainly prove to be useful.

Heiss extended a hand to to young woman. "Come with me, and let us write history together... history as it _should_ be. "

The woman mercenary was grinning from ear to ear as she shook Heiss' hand. "That's some poetic way to put it. I like it. My name's Raynie, sir. This fella here is Marco. We won't disappoint, I promise."

Heiss' smile became chilly. "I'll hold you to that." _It's not as if your task will be difficult. You only need to die, after all._

* * *

Two weeks later, and Heiss was back in Alistel, his gaze riveted on the old tome laying open on his desk.

How long had it been since he had used this book's powers? Heiss could not remember. The paths that stretched on the yellowed pages branched out at every possible crossing, inking each of his failures in broad, violent strokes. His hands curled into fists, and the old paper creased underneath his fingernails.

He had to do this. He had to. Heiss could barely remember what had happened in Noah Square, but there was no doubt that Stocke had jumped to Eruca's side as chaos had broken out. Was it to help her? To put an end to her misery? It was impossible to tell. One thing was sure; Stocke must have chanced upon his sister in Granorg. How did they meet? What had transpired between them? The agents Heiss had sent to watch over Stocke had no answer for either question. Still, this chain of events had given him at least two certainties.

One, that Stocke needed to become the wielder of the White Chronicle. Two, that Eruca needed to die. Preferably after Stocke had grasped the full meaning of what she expected him to do.

There was a knock. Heiss shut the White Chronicle and called for Stocke to enter.

The young man silently glided to Heiss' desk, his crimson scarf trailing behind him. His blue-green eyes showed no hint of warmth.

"Prompt as always." Heiss rose from his seat to welcome him.

Stocke made no movement to return the greeting. "No need for the small talk. What do you want, Heiss?"

A small laugh left Heiss' lips. "Prompt and blunt." He sat back into his chair and clasped his hands together. "Well, that's fine. I'm willing to let results trump manners." As the boy remained silent, Heiss continued, "As you must know, I have a mission for you, Stocke."

Stocke raised a brow as to say, _'Really, now?'_

"It's been some time since we've been to war with Granorg," Heiss said.

"And yet our situation worsens by the day," Stocke interrupted him.

"You heard right." Heiss almost wanted to punish the boy for his cheek. _Almost_. "Their lands have faced the worst of the desertification, after all, especially the areas near the Imperial ruins. They are getting desperate to claim any land that will yield a harvest." _As they should. They had hundreds of years to find another way to save themselves. Let them starve._

Stocke shrugged. "It's a problem, to be sure."

"Lately, the agents we've sent to Granorg keep coming a cropper against some unexpected set of events," Heiss continued. "Now it's happened again. An agent with important intel on the enemy's armaments is in a sticky situation. Which brings us to your mission," Heiss gave a significant pause before adding, "Rescue this agent and escort him safely back to Alistel."

"A rescue mission?" Stocke said. "Shouldn't that go to the military? Unless..."

Heiss bared his teeth in a shark-like grin. "You caught on quickly. The rendezvous point is west of Lazvil Hills. I doubt you need telling, but settle this before the military higher-ups catch wind. They've been eager to do away with Specint for quite a while." He sighed for more effect. "Indeed, they seem to delight in snatching results from us..."

Stocke took a long, slow inspiration. "So. No backup, the military mustn't know, and there's a time factor."

"Yes. You're the only agent who can get it done under the circumstances. The only one I trust." Heiss briefly wondered if he had laid the melodrama on a little too thick.

"I'll get it done, all right," Stocke said gruffly. "You needn't worry about that."

"That's what I like to hear," replied Heiss. "Also, I'm assigning two subordinates to you for this job."

This time, Stocke's stoic facade vacillated. "Why? I don't need even one. If I'm the sole survivor again..." His expression was a disturbing echo of the one he'd made when Heiss had asked him why he wanted to join Specint.

 _Is that what it's been about all this time?_ Heiss wondered, slightly bewildered. "If that's what you're worried about, then you'd best learn to make use of their talents. If you can't do that, then don't think of them as subordinates. Consider them tools instead."

"Tools, huh?" Stocke said, his usual coldness creeping back into his voice.

"Indeed." _That's a lesson I wish you would learn. Be sure to commit it to memory this time or else..._ "Moreover, I'm entrusting you with this." Heiss hesitated for one heartbeat before pushing the White Chronicle toward Stocke. The young man frowned as he took it.

"An old book?" he said, his tone doubtful.

"It's called the White Chronicle," Heiss clarified.

"White Chronicle? I've never heard of it." The young man flipped through the pages. "What's that? It's blank."

"Don't worry about it," said Heiss. "Still, you may need it on the mission."

"What? Why?"

Heiss shook his head. "Just... think of it as a lucky charm for now. It may not help, but it can't hurt, can it?"

For the first time since their meeting had begun, Stocke met Heiss' eyes. A sense of suspicion shone within the blue-green depths. "Fine. I'm off, then." He exited Heiss' office without so much a glance backward.

Heiss watched him leave, awaiting the events that would unfold next with baited breath. _Hurry. Hurry and find your way to where I've reached. I've waited long enough._

* * *

The knight's gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the western parts of Lazvil Hills were sprawled, almost as if he were unaware of his subordinates as they busied themselves around him. The Granorgite soldiers never stopped to look his way; they were aware that their superior's fearsome reputation was well-earned. They also knew him to be prone to long periods of silent deliberations. To any onlookers, it would just appear as if Palomides, known and feared across the continent as the Executioner, was lost in thought. The truth would have left them bewildered and perhaps a bit disturbed.

"The archers are in position, my lord," a voice came from behind him. "At the first sight of movement, they will strike,"

Palomides turned to face his aide, a difficult task to accomplish in his great armour. Gardner was frozen in a stiff salute.

"At ease, Gardner," Palomides said in a mechanical tone.

"A few more minutes, and that mongrel will definitely show up," a sneering Gardner replied. "I can't believe we've let him escape our lines of defence so easily. The soldiers responsible for this failure will have to face your wrath, my lord."

Palomides said nothing, but the presence parasitizing his soul let out a chuckle. The Executioner clutched his helmet, confused. His head was swimming; the summer heat must have been getting to him.

"My lord!" he and Gardner soon heard. A soldier was running toward them. "Lord Palomides, we've caught sight of the runaway spy!"

"Good!" said Gardner. "Shoot him! We mustn't let him get away!"

"He's met with some other people, sir. Two men and a woman. What do we do about them?"

"Other people?" Palomides said. "Are they...?"

The scout shook his head. "They're not wearing Alistellian uniforms."

"My lord, it's of no consequence," Gardner said to Palomides. "They will be caught in the crossfire, yes, but what can be done about it? We can't let an opportunity like this escape us."

"Indeed." Palomides nodded. "Kill them. Kill them all." He was in no mood to complicate this matter any more than necessary.

But today was not his day. Merely a half hour after he'd given this order, the soldier came back running.

"The archers failed," the scout said, panting. "The targets slipped away from our notice."

"Slipped away?" rasped Gardner.

The presence within Palomides' skin was buzzing with interest. "Where did you see them last?"

"To the south, my lord."

"The south, eh?" Gardner said. "They'll be stopped by the blockade, then. And if they go north, they'll meet with the bulk of our forces. They're like rabbits in a snare, my lord."

Dark thoughts clouded the Executioner's mind. "We must go to the south. We must not let them escape." _Except the boy in red,_ said the order planted within his brain. _Kill all the others, but keep him alive_. The compulsion drove him to march forward, his mind surprisingly void of anything but _the boy in red, kill the others but keep the boy in red alive, kill the others but—_

They were joined near the river by none other than Colonel Dias himself.

"Well?" the prodigiously young leader of the Granorgite military asked, "any sign of our quarry?"

"Not yet, Colonel," Gardner answered. "Our men are in pursuit. Apparently, they were headed south, toward the blockade."

A muscle twitched above one of Dias' sculpted eyebrows. "Then, they must have learned to vanish into thin air." As Gardner glanced nervously at Palomides, Dias clarified, his indigo eyes full of fury. "My men and I have just come from there, actually. We haven't seen hide nor hair of these fugitives."

"That's impossible!" Gardner cried. "We saw them going south! And they couldn't have possibly passed the blockade!"

"Whatever they did, they have managed to escape our sight," Dias said, a scowl marring his beautiful features. "I expect we will soon see the result of this folly on the battlefield when the Alistellians will use this man's intel against us."

"My lord!"

"Cease your griping, Gardner." The Colonel now directed his attention to Palomides. "We will retreat for now, and prepare our defences. The Alistellians will no doubt use this opportunity to strike soon."

"Yes, my lord," Palomides replied with a bow. Within his mind, the secret presence stayed silent as it pondered the current events.

 _Did he succeed?_ it wondered. _Has he awakened only after so short a time?_

Palomides did not question the voice in his head and only waited for further instructions. _Retreat alongside the rest of your troops for now_ , the words came after a while. _Keep an eye on the Granorgite front. I will have need of you later._

The Executioner's body blindly followed the command of its master, the others surrounding him unaware of the dead man walking within their midst.

* * *

From the window in his office, Heiss watched the commotion in the castle courtyard. A few hours earlier, the two subordinates he had assigned to his nephew had came rushing into Alistel Castle, carrying a Stocke who seemed barely able to stand on his feet. Even after they had gone to the infirmary, the place continued to bustle with activity. Words of the Granorgites' incursion in the western part of Lazvil Hills had sent the people of Alistel Castle in a worried frenzy. Soon, Heiss expected he'd have a visit from some higher-ups desperate for the bit of info he'd received from the spy who had been rescued by Stocke and his subordinates. _And still they turn up their noses at me_ , Heiss couldn't help but bitterly think.

Stocke woke up after a few days of unconsciousness. Because of the nature of their mandate, the twins could not tell him anything about Heiss' plans, but Heiss knew their interference could prove problematic. Still, he made sure to wait another full day before coming down to the infirmary to question Stocke. Seeming too eager would do him no good, after all. He had to play the ever-scheming superior, not the concerned uncle.

Since young Doctor Sonja had become the overseer of the Medical Division, the infirmary had been furnished with flowers of all sorts. By the bed Stocke had occupied, a few freesias had been planted, their gentle perfume filling the air with a sweet scent. Perhaps Sonja believed the smell would soothe her patients. Stocke, however, seemed indifferent to his friend's delicate attention; as Heiss came in, the young man was absorbed with a few flexing exercises. _Already preparing for his return to combat, I see..._

"So, you made it back alive," Heiss addressed Stocke, breaking the young man's concentration. "I expected greatness from you, and greatness you have given me."

For some time, Stocke seemed at a loss for words, but then his usual frown returned full force. "Heiss. I didn't expect to see you here."

"They told me my best agent was in critical condition," said Heiss. "How can I get any work done in my office while you're here in such a state? I told you before... you're one of my best boys."

Heiss' proclamation was met with more silence on Stocke's part.

"Much about our situation has changed while you slept," Heiss continued. "The Granorg army invading Lazvil Hills has been driven back." He gave the boy a genuine grin. "Not only that, but we even managed to take back the Sand Fortress at the border."

"Impressive progress," Stocke said evenly.

"All of it thanks to the intel you brought back for us. We've finally proven our worth in the eyes of the military. It ought to keep our detractors off our backs for a while, at any rate."

"One can hope." Stocke's tone was dull.

Heiss laughed as he shook his head. "Stocke, my boy! Can't you at least act a little happier? Or does it hurt too much to give so much as a smile?"

"That's just how I am," Stocke responded rather bluntly. "You should know me by now."

This time, it was Heiss' turn to be quiet. The response had stung more than he would have liked to believe. _Ernst used to smile so freely..._ And the boy had been blessed with such a beautiful smile too, one that would smooth the edges off his features, bringing a bit more light and warmth back to an undeserving world...

"Ah, well," Heiss eventually said. "As long as you have your health."

"You have my next assignment, then?"

Heiss chuckled again. "You catch on quickly. There is indeed a job I'd like to ask you to take on. Come around my office later."

"What about Raynie and Marco?"

Heiss fought to keep his face expressionless. _What_ _about_ _them...?_ "I put them on leave. The last mission was rather a strain on them, after all. But they seem to have taken a liking to you, and they're looking forward to your return. I plan on assigning them as your subordinates on the next mission as well."

"I see." Stocke folded his arms together.

"By the way, Stocke..." Heiss grew nearer. "Did the White Chronicle prove useful?"

He searched Stocke's features, looking for any line, any crease that would betray the boy's thoughts. Remembering Isla's teachings, he listened to the flow of Mana that coursed through Stocke's body; was there some new anomaly that had formed after he had gifted the White Chronicle to his nephew? Heiss was disappointed to find there was none.

The boy only evaded his gaze.

"Well?" Heiss prompted.

"I suppose it was useful as a lucky charm, like you said," Stocke said with a shrug. "Heaven knows we needed luck. That's the only reason I can see for us coming back in one piece."

Heiss' smile had stuck into place for so long he was sure his face was going to be painful afterwards. "I... see. So nothing, er, happened?"

Stocke's face was the picture of perfect stillness. "Such as?"

Heiss sighed inwardly. _Well played, my boy. Well played._

"All right," was the only response he could muster. "I'll let you hang onto the White Chronicle for a while longer. I'm sure you could use a lucky charm on your missions from here on out. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." Heiss drew back and headed for the door. "Once you're back on your feet, come around to my office."

A slight nod was all he got out of the young man. As Heiss climbed the stairs that led to the castle courtyard, the words he'd managed to get out of his protégé played out again in the back of his mind.

 _What does this mean?_ Heiss thought. _Has he awakened to the powers of the White Chronicle already? If so, why would he keep this away from me?_

Heiss needed to make sure _._ Under the perplexed gazes of the people of Alistel Castle, he rushed back to his office, where he retreated to his private quarters. With the Black Chronicle in hand, he settled himself in bed, focusing on his breathing and on the dark pages glowing faintly in front of him. Deep within him quivered the frayed strands of Mana that connected him to the ones whose souls had been consumed by the Chronicle. He searched for one thread in particular. When he seized it, he pulled back to him the remains of the unfortunate man's soul.

When Heiss opened his eyes again, it was to see through the gaze of another.

His steps were uncertain, clunky. This body had been dead for a while, and only the influence of the Black Chronicle had kept its soulless form from collapsing into sand. Several other soldiers stared at him as he lumbered his way first through the barracks then through the courtyard. Two healers gasped, pointing at him when he clumsily set a foot on the first step of the stairs leading down to the infirmary. The dead soldier's vacant gaze wandered over to them, and they scampered without another word.

Another pair was waiting for him at the end of the stairs. A young woman with brown hair, wearing flowing robes of red and white. And a blond man clad in crimson. A hiss escaped the dead man's cracked lips.

Stocke grew tense. "Can we help you?" His tone suggested anything but a desire to be of assistance.

In a flash, the sword was out of the dead soldier's scabbard. Sonja—the young woman in red and white—gave a small shriek, while Stocke raised a hand to shield her.

"Wh-What are you doing?" Sonja said breathlessly.

Stocke was not so subdued. "Sonja, _run!_ "

The dead soldier clenched his sword as the Black Chronicle poured Mana into his body. A violet glow began to envelop him, much as it had done with Palomides when Heiss had supplied the Executioner's body with Mana during his fight with Stocke on that bridge in Lazvil Hills—

The sudden image almost dragged Heiss back to his real body. _When Stocke fought Palomides? When did this happen?_ A dull pain throbbed in Heiss' temples, while on the dead soldier's end, a silver blur pierced the air. The tip of a giant lance burrowed itself into the dead man's shoulder. He did not scream, even when a great burst of red exploded from the wound.

The world in front of his eyes—of both Heiss' and the dead soldier's eyes—began to swirl. Through the latter's gaze, Heiss could see a great blur of red and gold advancing toward Stocke and Sonja _—the man called Rosch, the one with the Gauntlet. The one who believes himself to be Stocke's friend._

Rosch grabbed Heiss' puppet by the collar. "What division are you with? How dare you turn your sword against a fellow soldier?!"

The pain was slowly receding from Heiss' head. _What a spectacular failure,_ he thought, as Rosch screamed into his ears again. _Better to cut my losses now._

The soldier croaked a few sounds, but the dying muscles of his throat made them unintelligible. The black glow flared around his form again as Heiss pulled the last bits of Mana —the last bits of his soul—back into his own body. Perhaps he was imagining things, but a sigh of contentment resonated within his mind when the string that had tied him to the man's cadaver finally gave way.

And so, under the troubled gazes of Stocke, Rosch and Sonja, the dead man's flesh dissolved into sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big thanks to all of you, especially to my beta, for whom I still haven't written a Raul cameo. Sorry...


	23. Chapter 21 - Twin Paths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since from now on I'll be extensively using/paraphrasing some of the game's script, I feel another disclaimer is in order: everything RH related belongs to Atlus. Some of the quotes here aren't mine either, they were written by the original Japanese scenarist/the English localization team

Heiss' dreams had always been vivid. He remembered very little about his early years (would he even recall his parents' names if it weren't for the history books?) but this he knew. The nightmares had only grown more intense, more _lifelike_ , after his first death. How often he had found himself awakening in the dark, heart beating a mad tattoo in his chest, unable to tell what was real, the world in front of his eyes or the one inside his brain? How long it had taken him every time, then, to make sure the frightening figures of his nightmares wouldn't follow him out to the real world? _Except that the real world has proven itself to be more terrible than anything my nightmares could conjure,_ Heiss thought bitterly.

The hazy nature of the dreams that had been plaguing him of late thus left him perplexed.

He dreamed of strangely mundane things. Once he woke up only remembering bits of a conversation his imaginary self had shared with Stocke—he couldn't recall what they had spoken about, but the dream had left him uneasy, angry even. Another day, he had instead awoken with a burning desire to rip Lieutenant General Raul to shreds, even though he had never met the man face-to-face.

This very morning, Heiss had abruptly sprung out of sleep with only the image of a man's terrified face floating in his mind. It had taken him a while, but he had finally recognized him as a merchant of explosives whose wares were often used by the military. This had been puzzling, as he clearly did not remember ever wanting to harm the poor man. What could have prompted such a strange dream?

It did not matter, anyway. The merchant was to be escorted by a Specint agent to a mine southwest of Alistel—Alma Mine—to help the military devise a counterattack to a sudden attempt by the Granorgites to seize control of the area. Heiss did monitor his survival, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. _Far_ more pressing matters, in fact.

Stocke and his two new subordinates were standing in front of his desk, awaiting their next instructions. The girl and the young healer listened to his every words with rapt attention, but their superior only regarded Heiss with an indifference bordering on insubordination. _The mercenaries act more professional than the career soldier,_ thought Heiss. _How amusing_.

"This time, your mission will be much more delicate," Heiss told them. He hoped Stocke would notice the stern note in his tone.

Not a muscle on the boy's face moved. "Tell me more," was all he said.

"I won't mince words here," explained Heiss. "This mission stands a chance of putting an end to our long war against Granorg."

The girl gasped while her companion's mouth dangled open. Stocke's brows furrowed slightly.

"There's no one else I can trust with such a vital mission," Heiss continued. "No one but you, Stocke."

Stocke's two subordinates looked as if they were fiercely fighting an urge to whisper amongst themselves. Stocke, for his part, only asked, "What's our objective?"

Heiss tugged at his whiskers, smiling. "You will begin by heading to Granorg. More than that, I can't say now. The situation changes hourly. Once the final order is given, you'll be contacted on-site. It may seem like a roundabout way of doing things, but such are the difficulties of the mission."

Stocke inclined his head. "Very well."

"To start," said Heiss, "you'll have to update yourself with the current best way to enter Granorg territory. To that end, you'll liaise with our border contact at Lazvil Hills. He's on another mission in the Alma Mine now, but he'll come to Lazvil Hills when he's done."

"If it's a simple border crossing," Stocke countered, "couldn't we just pass through the Sand Fortress? I don't see the need to pick up any special intel for that."

"And if I told you that the Sand Fortress is on the verge of being recaptured by the enemy?"

Stocke unfolded his arms. "Is it really?"

"It's an old story now with any border stronghold." Heiss shrugged. He remembered how difficult it had been to seize it back when he had led his mercenaries forces. "We capture it, the enemy takes it back, and we reclaim it again in an endless cycle. Control of the Sand Fortress is too fluid to be reliable for this mission."

"Hence the need for the most current information," completed Stocke. "I get it."

"You'll rendezvous with the contact under the bridge at Lazvil Hills. Wait there. He'll come to you." With the swipe of a hand, Heiss motioned to Stocke and his companions to leave.

When they were gone, Heiss reached for the Black Chronicle. There were certain details that needed to be arranged before the trio would get to the border.

 _Has he awakened or not?_ Heiss had to be sure before he'd put the last parts of his plan into motion. He would much rather have the boy come to him of his own volition. Besides, there was something disappointing about the idea of Stocke not figuring out the truth on his own. Ernst had always been such a smart boy, after all.

Heiss' fingers raced across the dark pages of the Chronicle. _Just a little longer._ He closed his eyes, concentrating on one of the numerous strands of Mana that connected him to his servants' soulless bodies. His shadows, as he called them. _Just a little longer._ The thought did not quiet the turmoil within him, and it was with a mind heavy with uneasiness that he slipped out of his body to find the flesh of the shadow slave waiting for him at the Granorgite border.

* * *

_The soldier walked unnoticed among the rest of the Alistellian troops. The members of the Major's brigade were busy preparing themselves for the next leg of their journey, which would lead them from Judgement Cliff to the Sand Fortress. The soldier—a member of Specint in truth—searched the premises for his quarry. It did not take long; after all, the man's crimson clothes stood out starkly against the greens of Lazvil Hills._

_"Lieutenant Stocke?" the soldier said. "I'm—"_

_The golden child of the Specint division regarded him with suspicious eyes. Behind him, a young woman in blue and a boy—a child?—stopped their conversation short._

_"You're Heiss' messenger," Lieutenant Stocke cut the soldier off._

_This prompted a chuckle from the infiltrator. "Ah, I thought I'd managed to blend into the army quite well. Impressive." Inside the soldier's mind, another consciousness was beaming with pride. "I suppose men like us have a sixth sense for our own kind."_

_The man called Stocke only glared. "State your business."_

_The soldier opened his mouth, but he wasn't aware that the words that spilled from him were supplied by another. "I have a message from Heiss. 'It's about time you came back. Playtime's over. If you don't... you'll suffer the same fate as that brigade.' That is all."_

_A quirked eyebrow was all he got as a response for a long moment. "Is he threatening me?" Stocke finally said._

_A spark of anger ignited in the other consciousness within the soldier's brain. "That's for you to figure out," it said through its messenger's mouth. "Like I said, I'm just the messenger. And I'm impartial."_

_"Then I'd like to deliver a message to Heiss. Consider the offer declined. Abandoning this brigade is the furthest thing from my mind right now." The Lieutenant marched closer to the soldier, his eyes as icy as a gale in the middle of a stormy sea. "Get that message to Heiss and do it fast."_

He's gotten your message, alright _, the being within the soldier thought._ Of course you had to make this difficult. _There was nothing else he could do here. As his messenger continued to speak, giving further instructions, the other consciousness slithered away from his body—_

— _when once more it seized control of its servant's flesh, the landscape in front of his eyes had changed. Gone were the trees and emerald hills of southern Alistel—sand and rock filled his sight, and the soldier's boots raised clouds of dust whenever he took a step. The man had arrived in Judgement Cliff. It took Heiss a moment to realize he wasn't alone._

 _"Maybe you should ask Heiss for yourself,_ _" a familiar_ _voice spoke. Heiss didn't have to see the blond hair or the red scarf trailing behind him to know it belonged to Stocke._

 _Heiss could feel annoyance rippling through the body of his shadow servant._ _"Y_ _ou actually think he'd tell me?_ _" the man bristled. He grinned, though, as he unsheathed his sword._ _"Although, t_ _his way, I get to test out your skill firsthand. And if you end up dead, I'll just report that your ability had its limits after all._ _"_

_A woman cried out when the shadow rushed forward, sword raised. Heiss did not waste any energy trying to control the man's actions. This shadow was a swift and strong fighter, even showing some aptitude in magic. Heiss knew he would give Stocke just enough trouble to force the boy to summon every skill at his disposal without putting his nephew in true peril._

_Sure enough, the battle was over a mere moment later; Stocke's female companion had intercepted the murderous agent in his mad dash, and Stocke himself finished the skirmish with one quick jab to the side. The shadow fell to his knees, wheezing._

_Blood poured out of the dead man's mouth as he laughed. "I see why Heiss wants to keep you around now." He coughed, splattering the sand with red. "But every second you play this game of hide-and-seek you put your little brigade in danger..."_

_"Explain yourself," Stocke commended, blade prickling the man's neck._

_"Didn't I tell you? Heiss wants to keep you under his thumb. But Specint is in no position to go against the military's wishes. That's why when the time is right, Major Rosch is going to take a little spill. If he goes down now that you've been pulled from Specint, it'll give Heiss the advantage." The shadow gave another chuckle. "You'd best come back on your own accord if you don't want things to get messy..."_

_The man had no way to be aware of this, but thousands of leagues away, dark energies were gathering as something he couldn't possibly understand began to pull at the frayed strands of Mana that kept his body alive and functioning._

_"Keep talking," said Stocke._

_"Well, this scheme has yet another major player." Was it spite that prompted the man to be so talkative? It soon wouldn't matter anyway. "Someone who doesn't want to see Rosch getting too big for his britches. You must know who I'm referring to. That's all I know. Now do you understand, do you? If you want to survive, heed my advice. It's for your own—"_

_**You talk too much.** _

_The soldier gasped. He didn't even have the time to gather his thoughts when a terrible pain overwhelmed all his senses, and he screamed and screamed as **something** was ripped apart from his body and—_

* * *

Heiss sprang awake, gasping.

He remained seated in his chair, blinking, for several minutes. He had been dreaming again. This time, he could only recall seeing jagged rock cliffs and feeling the piercing bite of a blade in his belly. _Judgement Cliff, I was in Judgement Cliff._ But none of his shadows were currently stationed in the great expanses beyond the Sand Fortress. _And none of them were killed recently._ Who was it that his shadow had been fighting in the dream? Heiss couldn't remember; his head was hurting too much.

It was no use worrying about this, however. Heiss had work to do.

A few weeks had passed since he had sent Stocke on his mission to Granorg. This time, he had his servants shadow all the boy's moves. As he had arranged so, the Sand Fortress had fallen to Granorgite hands only a couple of days after Stocke and his companions had left Alistel. Yet, Stocke had obviously passed the blockade Granorg had set on the border; any moment now, he would enter the capital. There, the informant who had been patiently waiting in Granorg for Stocke would tell the boy just what his real task was. And then Heiss would finally know the exact nature of the relationship that would blossom—that had blossomed before in the previous timeline _—_ between the young man and his long-lost sister. _Will he be as gullible with the White Chronicle in hand?_ Heiss wondered. _Will I have to intervene before he lets himself be swayed by her lies again?_

Heiss had planned it so it would never happen. _I'll kill her_ , he promised himself. _I'll kill her if she ever has the gall to force him to—_

A memory resurfaced in his mind. A soft-spoken child with anxious blue eyes, her fingers gingerly wrapping around his hand. How her face had lit up when he'd given her that bow, back in Skalla! Heiss shook his head, teeth gnashing in anger at this folly. _This is no time for sentimentality. She has accepted the path her father chose for her._ His shoulder twinged in remembered pain. _This made her Ernst's enemy. My enemy._

Still, what strange poetry it would make, to have the girl's end be brought about by her brother's hands. _The universe, back in its proper place_ , Heiss realized. The thought did not fill him with the satisfaction he had expected. Instead, his heart was weighted by a sense of inexplicable disgust.

Rather than ponder the reasons behind this, Heiss immediately took the Black Chronicle in hand.

* * *

_The metallic clang of steel boots hitting the stone floor filled the empty corridors. The shadow whose skin Heiss was currently wearing turned his head toward the source of the sound. This part of Castle Granorg's dungeons had been empty save for him. It could only be the one he had been waiting for._

_Heiss was very amused when Hugo's surprise Granorgite collaborator turned out to be a red-haired man with a familiar frown. Count Selvan advanced toward Heiss' servant with a brisk pace, a small squad of knights surrounding his tense form. The shadow gave a grunt to welcome the man who was the head of the Granorgite Parliament in all but name. As they shook hands, Heiss searched Selvan's features, trying to see traces of the sullen teenager he had met so long ago. New lines creased the forehead of the late Count Gamlen's son, giving him a more severe look than his father. Heiss briefly wondered if Victor's plans to betroth Eruca to one of Selvan's younger brothers still stood._

_Selvan barely held to the handshake; he seemed to find the touch of the shadow distasteful. Without another word, Heiss' agent handed him Hugo's battle plans. He took a step back as Selvan read the papers with a pursed mouth._

_"They have sent a brigade of green soldiers to assist the Valkyrie in protecting the Fortress?" said Selvan.  
_

_The shadow shrugged. "It so happens that General Hugo has something of a grudge toward the officer in charge of this brigade."_

_"Is that so? What a puerile reason for sending his own people to the slaughter."_

_Heiss' laugh echoed in the shadow's skull._ Well, considering what you are ready to accomplish to further your own goals, my dear Count... _He left the thought unfinished._

_Selvan must have felt some of Heiss' scorn seeping from the shadow, for his scowl deepened._

_"What desperate times we live in," the Count said, "to be forced to collaborate with such a sorry excuse for a human being."_

_The shadow's grin grew larger. "Don't go around saying these things within earshot of an Alistellian. The General is a prickly man, and things people say behind his back have a tendency to find their way back to his ears."_

_"How tiresome. The thought has me trembling in my boots." Selvan turned to one of his soldiers. "Captain, give our good man here the documents we have promised his master. And guide him out, if you please."_

_"Yes, my lord."_

_"The General is deeply indebted to you, Count Selvan," the shadow said in an obsequious tone. "Alistel will find in your Granorg a trusted friend indeed."_

_Count Selvan only gave another sneer. "Your faith is touching." He then whirled away, not even wasting another glance at the shadow servant behind him._

_And back in Alistel Castle, a man just kept laughing._

* * *

Heiss stormed out of the Thaumatech laboratory, secretly fuming.

The development of the Divine Judgement—really, Heiss could see Fennel's point here, Hugo had given his pet project a name of _such_ idiotic proportions—had come to an abrupt stop.

Even out of the laboratory, Heiss could still hear the General arguing with Fennel and his engineers. Hugo shouted and shouted, but Fennel's voice never rose to match. The Head of the Thaumatech department repeated his previous arguments—not enough data, not enough resources, not enough _time_.

Heiss had slipped away before the General could explode again. As always, the various denizens of Alistel Castle paid him no mind as he climbed his way to his office on the third floor.

On the Thaumatech-powered elevator, he was met with a bespectacled aide who was humming to himself. Heiss gave no hint that he recognized the man, even though he was one of his agents. They parted ways when they reached the second floor. Still, Heiss knew the man would soon come to give his report.

Sure enough, the agent passed by a few moments later to speak of his recent findings. He was the handler of a few spies who were currently stationed within Granorgite territory. Most of Heiss' people had been turned into shadows by now, giving him powers beyond belief, but he was still fond of using old methods. After all, as much as he wanted, he could never truly control all of his shadows simultaneously.

The agent stood silently as Heiss read the report. It corroborated several things he'd already seen through his shadows' eyes. The Granorgite Resistance was gathering their forces to strike at the heart of the mad queen's kingdom, while most of Granorg's attentions were focused toward Alistel. Queen Protea's main two advisers—the most treacherous of her cronies, really—had ignored General Hugo's backhanded attempts at an alliance. Heiss couldn't help but give a little smirk at this. Count Selvan and his collaborator, High Colonel Dias, had obviously balked when they realized just how unstable Hugo's position was getting. And of course, the agent confirmed the bit of intel that was most important to Heiss: the fact that Stocke had reached the gates of Granorg's capital. A few more days, and Heiss would finally see if the boy had steeled his resolve enough to attempt to assassinate his very own sister.

After the man had gone, Heiss was left alone to compose his thoughts. The assassination attempt he had tasked Stocke with would serve as another test for the boy. So far he had risen above every snag Heiss had placed in his path. This time, the stakes were higher. Heiss couldn't wait to see how Stocke would deal with the situation.

The next day, Heiss was once again called to a meeting between Hugo and Fennel. As he descended to the Thaumatech laboratories, Heiss pondered the current events. Hugo was getting more desperate by the hour; else, why would he seek out Heiss' counsel so much?

The various engineers that roamed the underground facility averted their eyes as he stalked through their midst. The main laboratory waited at the end of the corridor. The loud _thumps-thumps_ of the machinery and the echoing sounds of Heiss' footsteps against the steel of the floor weren't even enough to cover Hugo's booming voice.

"—are you questioning my judgement, Fennel? Are you truly saying this debacle has been caused by me?"

Heiss walked into the room. Fennel's subordinates had stopped their tinkering; they were looking back and forth between General Hugo and their superior, their expressions growing anxious. Fennel, for his part, appeared unfazed.

"If only you had let my Thaumachines on the first line of battle just as I had asked you—"

"It was not your call to make, but mine!" Hugo raged. _"I_ lead this country's armies. My judgement was sound."

Fennel responded with a sigh. "And yet now the Granorgites are all but at our doorstep, while I am stuck here with nothing to power the Thaumachines that are fit for combat." His voice wavered dramatically. "And to think that the Divine Judgement turned out to be such a massive failure! Oh, the humanity!"

"We must find a way to send these Thaumachines on the battlefield," cried Hugo. "We must!"

"If only we could find a steady Mana supply..." Heiss' voice cut through the tension.

Hugo and Fennel whipped their heads toward him. It seemed they hadn't noticed he had gotten here.

"It's true," continued Heiss. "With such an abundance of Thaumatech in the city, it's no wonder you can't find a suitable source for these war machines of yours."

"What would you have us do, then?" asked Fennel.

It was Hugo who answered rather than Heiss. "Find another source." His dark eyes began to gleam with excitement. "On a land in which no Thaumatech can be found."

"How? Where?"

"Celestia," Hugo said. "Their lands are rich in life and their people strong in magic. They must have Mana to spare."

"You've burned down the Celestian capital to the ground, General—"

"—but we haven't killed the last of the Satyros," Heiss interrupted Fennel. "I've learned from trustworthy sources that the survivors went deeper into the forest to build their capital anew. Apparently, a great magical barrier is erected around the city so no intruder can enter."

Some of Fennel's usual enthusiasm crept back into his voice when he spoke again. "To maintain such a barrier, they must have mobilized an astounding quantity of Mana. Enough to power my— _our_ Thaumachines."

"Then it's settled," Hugo declared. "We will finish what we had started all these years ago. This time, we _will_ seize control of the Celestian territories. We will purge the Satyros from existence if necessary."

His words were met with silence from Fennel and the rest of the engineers. The latter, of course, were too meek to voice their dissent, while Fennel had no objection to make, being promised even more than he dreamed of. For his part, Heiss had little to say.

 _They will fail_ , he thought to himself. _Celestia will be theirs, but Granorg will crush them afterwards._ Perhaps it was time to look into other options, then. General Hugo was not the only man on the continent who was blind enough with powerlust to let himself be trapped in Heiss' web, after all.

* * *

_Alistel Castle was abuzz with talks of the defeat that had crushed the beloved new brigade near the Sand Fortress. The image of its second-in-command dragging the battered, bloody body of his friend into the castle courtyard still haunted the whole of the Alistellian military, fuelling a climate of paranoia and fear. Heiss himself had not visited Stocke since, thinking it would be better to keep his distance. Perhaps this time the young man had gotten the message and would go to Heiss of his own accord._

_Yet, it had been a week since Stocke's catastrophic arrival to Alistel, and the boy obviously hadn't thought to come back groveling to Heiss. A pity. Another lesson was in order, apparently._

_Heiss had kept a constant eye on his wayward protégé ever since the boy had come back to Alistel. Stocke had rarely left the infirmary where Major Rosch was recovering. For this reason, when Heiss saw him skulking about the floor where most of the high brass held their offices, he hid himself under the Vanish spell to follow after the boy, curious and secretly delighted._

_Stocke was giving surreptitious looks toward Hugo's study. Under the cover of invisibility, Heiss grinned in anticipation. When Stocke finally summoned the courage to creep into Hugo's office, Heiss was already waiting for him next to the General's desk. Behind his back, hidden from Stocke's view, Heiss held the documents his nephew was no doubt searching for. The documents that, if decrypted, would depict the active hand Count Selvan of Granorg had taken in the attack on Major Rosch's brigade. The fact that such an incriminating piece of paper could be found in General Hugo's office would only add fuel to Stocke's fury._

_The boy entered with furtive steps while Heiss continued to watch him, still invisible to the naked eye._ He is desperate _, Heiss realized_ , more than he has ever been. _Was it his friend's brush with death that had caused this unusual attitude? If so, Heiss' plans had worked perfectly._

_Stocke began a frantic search of the different drawers on Hugo's desk. Heiss closed his eyes and exhaled, releasing his hold on the Mana that dwelled within his body. With a flash of blue light, he materialized right next to Stocke. As always, the boy was quick on his feet; in the blink of an eye, he swung his sword toward Heiss. Still smirking, Heiss evaded the slash with a lazy side-step._

_Stocke regarded Heiss with a mixture of alarm and... fear? The tip of his sword was shaking, Heiss noticed._

_"That," the young man snarled, "that was..."_

_"That was just one of the countless techniques you don't know about," Heiss responded pleasantly. "Still, I would have expected Raul to try something more devious. I'm surprised he's playing this one so by the book." He tugged on his whiskers, feigning surprise."It can only mean that he's cornered."_

_Stocke swallowed nervously. "Heiss..."_

_"You're here for that confidential letter, aren't you? The one proving Hugo conspired with the enemy commander to leak Rosch's movements. Isn't that right? I regret to inform you that said document is in my possession just now." He waved the papers in Stocke's face, then hid them in the pocket of his frock coat._

_Stocke's glare never faltered; his hands tightened around the hilt of his sword._

_"Oh?" Heiss' grin was broad. "That's the look I've been waiting for. I'll let you have this on one condition. Come work under me again. If you do that, this is yours."_

_"Why? Why me?"_

_"I'll throw in the answer to that question as well, to sweeten the deal, if you accept my terms."_ It's far more generous than what will await you if you reject my offer, _Heiss completed in his mind._

_Stocke considered this for a few precious seconds. "Alright," he finally said, moving as if to sheath his sword._

_Heiss could scarcely take a step toward him; soon, Stocke's sword was out of its scabbard again, slashing wildly in Heiss' direction. None of Stocke's attacks connected with his target. Heiss gave a loud bark of laughter._

_"That's my boy!" he exclaimed, as he used his magic to vanish from Stocke's view, only to reappear behind him. Sweat glistened on the young man's cheeks. He rushed forward once more, his sword only meeting emptiness. Heiss' chuckles echoed farther away._

_Stocke's next attack came more quickly than his previous efforts. Rather than evade the blow, Heiss only raised his right arm, the blade of Stocke's sword hitting the hidden steel of his Gauntlet in a terrible screech. Stocke's eyes widened, and he swiftly drew back, cursing under his breath. Anyone would have fled by now, but the young man only dropped into another battle stance, ready to continue the fight._

_Heiss roared with laughter. "You really are an intriguing one, aren't you?" He seized his frock coat and threw it to the side, revealing his Gauntlets to Stocke. The young man stared in shock and horror. "That's it, my boy, take up your sword and fight me if you wish."_ Take up your sword and change your destiny, _Heiss thought._ Perhaps the intensity of your hatred will leave its mark on history.

 _They circled around one another, as if nothing else existed in the world but the two of them. Heiss concentrated on the stream of Mana that coursed through Stocke's body. He was pleasantly surprised to see how brightly it shone in contrast to the last time he'd met with the young man._ Could it be? _There was not a hundred ways the boy could have learned to focus his magic._

_When Stocke gave the first strike, Heiss responded with a parry and a grin. The energy of the Black Chronicle was adding to the natural power of the Mana bursting through his being, and he met Stocke blow for blow, never showing a hint of fatigue. In the end, it was Stocke who ended panting, sweat and blood trickling down his face._

_Still, Heiss was pleased. "It seems you've learned a few tricks. Even more interesting." He tilted his head to the side, clawed arms nonchalantly hanging to his sides. "Is that all you can do?"_

_Stocke's gaze never left the form of his adversary, even when a few shouts flared from outside the office._

_"Did you hear that?" someone called out from the corridor._

_"It came from over there!"_

_Heiss shook his head. "Tsk. Unwanted visitors. They always ruin things."_

_The words had barely left his mouth when Stocke dashed toward him once more. Heiss rushed forward to greet the offensive with a swipe of his claws, only to have his Gauntlet meet thin air. He whirled on his feet; Stocke was making a beeline for his discarded coat. Jaw clenched, Heiss ran, Gauntlets ready for an attack... but then blue energy crackled around Stocke's form, and before Heiss could bring his claws down the boy had disappeared._

" _What?" Heiss could only gasp. He sensed a_ whoosh _of air next to him._

_"I'm taking this document with me," Stocke's voice came from near the door. Heiss could then hear him running out of Hugo's office. Heiss stood in silent astonishment for a long moment, before retracting the claws on his Gauntlets._

_"He mastered that technique after seeing it in only one battle," Heiss said, his voice breathless with wonder."Heh, heh! That's my boy!"_ That would be something to expect from a true wielder of the White Chronicle _, Heiss added in his mind. Pride swelled within his chest._

_He had just finished sliding one last arm into the sleeve of his coat when Hugo erupted into the room, accompanied by two guards. Beads of sweat were forming on the General's bald head._

_"You!" the man thundered, "What are you up to, sneaking into my office like this!?"_

" _Nothing at all," Heiss said with a shrug. "There was just... a rat I was trying to get rid of."_

_"A rat?"_

_"A rather slippery one, alas." Heiss directed his characteristic grin toward Hugo. "He got away." His whole being was drunk with happiness. He felt like bursting into song._

_"That's impossible!" Hugo cried. "How could you have let him escape?!"_

_Heiss' smile turned cool as ice. He didn't feel like laughing anymore._ I'll tear every limb from you before I let you touch any hair on his head. _"Hmph, don't you think the fault is yours? Leave around cheese, and you can expect rats. He completed his objective with flying colours."_

_"Cheese?" Hugo looked on the verge of a heart attack. "No... that document!"_

_"You really ought to destroy that sort of thing immediately," Heiss suggested cordially. "If you keep it around forever, this is what happens."_

_"It was evidence of the treaty I had with... with them. I couldn't destroy it until they kept their end of the bargain. That's why it was written in a cipher."_

_"Ah," Heiss said, "so you thought ahead. But that doesn't change the fact that someone has their eyes on you. I'm sure you already know who started this mess. It won't be easy to clean up."_

_Hugo's face scrunched up in a sneer. "You don't have to tell me twice." He turned toward the two soldiers to bark orders at them, "Seal the city at once! Don't let this rat escape! And assign someone to keep an eye on Lieutenant General Raul!"_

_The soldiers exchanged unsure looks. "On Lieutenant General Raul? S-Sir, are you sure?"_

_"Are you questioning my orders?!"_

_"No, s-sir, we'll leave right away, sir!" With one last salute they were out of the office, Hugo's wrathful eyes still trained on them._

_"Well, I expect this is my cue for leaving as well," Heiss said. He walked over to Hugo and shot him a glance from out the corner of his eye. "I assume you'd rather be alone with all the thinking you have to do."_

_Hugo shook from barely repressed anger. Heiss only gave a snort of amusement, earning himself a glare from the man._

_As he headed for his own office, the events of the battle flashed in front of his eyes. Yes, there was no mistaking it: Stocke's Mana had burned so brightly, so strongly. The boy_ had _awakened to the powers of the White Chronicle._

Now, what is Stocke going to do next? _Heiss thought, a pleasing warmth still simmering within him._ What will be his next move? _He couldn't wait to see._

* * *

This time, Heiss groggily awoke from sleep, his head heavy and painful. With a grunt, he moved from his bed, seeing from the sole window of his quarters that it was still dark outside. This time, his dreams had been even blurrier than before. Only one thing remained: the strangely persistent notion that Stocke had awakened to the White Chronicle without Heiss realizing it.

What had turned mere suspicion into certainty? Heiss didn't know. He did, however, know just where he could find answers. And thus, taking no time to dress out of his night garments or eat, he took the Black Chronicle in hand, exhaling slowly as he felt himself be dragged to _wherever_ Historia happened to exist.

"You came back," Lippti said as he appeared on the platform in front of her and her brother. She always continued to welcome him to Historia, even though he rarely spoke to them anymore.

Heiss raised a pair of tired eyes to the duo. "Has Stocke awakened to his powers?" His tone indicated that he would tolerate no half-truth or vague answer. Still, neither of the twins appeared to note his discontentment.

"What powers?" asked Teo.

"His powers, the powers of the White Chronicle!" A desperate, almost maddened hint had slipped into Heiss' voice in spite of his efforts.

"We are not allowed to directly intervene," Lippti reminded him. "Only counsel you."

"Counsel me? _Counsel?!_ " Heiss inhaled sharply. It would do him no good to explode in anger in front of the twins. "Aren't you withholding information from me? How can you call this helping me?"

Heiss glared at one twin then at the other. Their contempt was palpable. This, more than anything, was all he needed to know his hunch was true.

"He _did_ awaken to the powers of the White Chronicle, didn't he?" Their silence only confirmed his theory. "He did, but where? Or, more importantly, _when?"_

Heiss' head was still painfully heavy. He thought back on the headaches and dreams that had been plaguing him of late. _A battle in Judgement Cliff, a deal between Selvan and Hugo to get Major Rosch out of commission, Stocke standing in front of me, his Mana shining like a thousand suns._ All events that he could barely remember. All events that had never happened.

The truth suddenly hit him. "Parallel timelines. These are the results of Stocke messing with history!" Heiss began to pace on the grey platform, passing a hand through his thinning hair. "These events seem all linked somehow..." Heiss trudged through his memories, ignoring the terrible pain that was summoned alongside the foggy images. Another idea quickly formed within his mind. He glanced upward to Teo, carefully searching for any clue in the boy's face. The latter averted his eyes.

"Could it be... could it be that Stocke is keeping two timelines intact at the same time?"

Teo and Lippti's faces remained still as stone.

"This is... this is..." The possibility was gleeful. "I have always known he was a special boy, smarter than the average, but this...! This shows he truly stands head and shoulders above the rest!"

Teo rolled his eyes, but Lippti was slightly smiling.

Still, that meant Heiss had to be more careful from now on. Stocke had a powerful weapon in his arsenal, one he could mistakenly use against his uncle if he didn't come upon the truth soon.

Heiss' mood grew somber once more. "I know you two," he said, eyes narrowing. "I know you will try to lead him astray."

"We only want the best for you and your family," droned Lippti.

"Spare me your platitudes," Heiss spat. "Soon, Stocke and I will put an end to all of this, and afterwards, I will come for the two of you. I'll strangle you with my own hands if need be."

The twins' stares were indifferent and colder than usual. They offered no other response to his threat.

With one last glare, Heiss began to climb the steps that would lead him out of this wretched place.

 _Just a little longer_ , he repeated to himself as a mantra. _Just a little longer._ It was not so comforting a thought. His head hurt so much. He was so, so very tired. _Just a little longer..._

And for possibly the first time in his life, Heiss started to wish for an end to this arduous journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heeeeh, that part where Heiss and Stocke fight and Stocke gains the Vanish ability is one of my favourite in the game. You could see Heiss was barely containing his excitement at the whole thing, it almost seemed as if he was ready to to jump up and down when Hugo entered the room and tell the guy just how ~awesome and ~smart his little boy truly is. Also, the line "That was just one of the countless techniques you don't know about" is kind of amazing in a hilarious way.
> 
> Once again, thanks to all of you readers and to my beta! The ingame lines are taken from either the LP Archive's playthrough of the game or the one Tez (LadyNighteyes) made on LJ. So special thanks to them in particular!


	24. Chapter 22 - Black Versus White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since from now on I'll be extensively using/paraphrasing some of the game's script, I feel another disclaimer is in order: everything RH related belongs to Atlus. Some of the quotes here aren't mine either, they were written by the original Japanese scenarist/the English localization team.

Heiss had first learned of the mercenaries Raynie and Marco through one of his shadows. The girl Mimel had been a comrade of theirs, once, and it was from her memories that Heiss found out about the existences of these two. Heiss hadn't thought Mimel would be useful beyond this little piece of info; he'd been pleased to be proved wrong.

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about the girl. She had dyed her hair an electric shade of green, perhaps in an effort to divert attention from her rather plain face. Her skills as a mercenary had been lacking, and after one career-ending injury, she had been forced to search for another line of work. She had instead found her way into Specint. Heiss almost wanted to pity her.

She would have remained uninteresting in the grander scheme of things if she had not been the one to find Stocke in Cygnus. Heiss had lost sight of him in the debacle that had followed Queen Protea's attempt to smoke out the members of the Resistance. He had been aware that the boy had been in contact with his sister's mongrel followers, but beyond that, Stocke had left little hint as to his whereabouts. Heiss' usual sense of pride in the boy had been tainted by a little displeasure after this.

Heiss wasn't even surprised that his nephew had made his way to Cygnus. The desert country had so far remained neutral in the conflict that raged between Granorg and Alistel, but Heiss knew any of the two warring superpowers would jump at an opportunity to bring it into the fold. Heiss had planted a few of his agents in the capital city of Cygnus, mainly to keep a careful eye on its impetuous king, Garland. He remembered the man to be smart and cautious, but thirsty for battle enough that he could easily be swayed to one side or another. Heiss was curious as to whether of Granorg or Alistel would win the famous king's allegiance.

Mimel sent back every bit of intel she could get her hands on, but through her eyes Heiss could already see all he needed. He got wind of a blond, red-clad gladiator defeating the king in single battle mere hours after the deed. Swiftly, Heiss set out to seize this golden opportunity.

Even after five months of living in Cygnus, Mimel was still clearly uncomfortable in her city of adoption. She skulked about in the market district, giving covert glances to her surroundings. None of the merchants or citizens bustling about seemed to pay her any attention. Before any of them could notice the strangely nervous girl in their midst, Mimel stepped into the bar where she worked. Her only welcome was a sneer from her boss.

"Girl! What did I say to you about being late?"

Mimel mumbled an apology. She briefly met his glare, then looked away. He wasn't worth it. She would soon be out of his hair anyway.

"You listenin' to me?" the man growled again. "I said go clean up the storeroom! You deaf or what?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll do it right away." And off she went, clutching her secrets to her heart.

Nightmares had plagued Mimel's sleep for quite a while, now, thanks to the terrible event she had helped facilitate. The girl had caught but a glimpse of the Hell Spider as it tore through the southern gate before escaping to safer grounds. She was keenly aware that many had not been as quick and lucky as her.

Heiss didn't quite care that she had forgot to destroy the letter his other shadow had given her, a day before the attack. The letter that told her a number of Hell Spiders would soon find their way toward the capital. Heiss had felt a slew of conflicting emotions pass through Mimel's mind when she had read the missive. She had finally settled on a mixture of fear, resignation and guilt. Heiss had known then that he would soon need to get rid of her before she became inconvenient.

He didn't expect for this day to come to pass so soon.

In the late afternoon, the first customers came in, prompting Mimel to speed up in her cleaning. She had been hard at work serving some tables when she heard the door opening. A gush of fresh air swept inside the bar, sending goosebumps across her skin. Mimel nearly dropped her tray when she got sight of the newcomers.

 _Marco?_ Mimel thought, while at the same time another name was uttered in the recesses of her mind. She could not know the tall young man wearing red, but Heiss certainly did.

Mimel stood gaping for a couple of seconds. It was a terrible mistake; before she could turn away and hide her face, the boy named Marco spotted her.

"Mimel?" he said, his voice soft with a delighted sort of disbelief.

"Marco?" said Mimel. "W-What are you doing here?"

In response, Marco went to Mimel, his arms wide open as if he wanted to embrace her. For his part, Stocke only leaned on the wall, his body taut, his hands clenched into fists.

"I thought you were waiting tables in Alistel!"

Guilt surged through Mimel again. "Well, um, a lot happened. I had to quit..."

"And by 'a lot happened', you mean you were recruited as a spy."

The accusation pierced through Mimel like a knife. Marco spun on his heel to gape at Stocke.

"Stocke!" the boy shouted. "What's gotten into you?"

Was it Heiss' imagination or did Stocke's features twist with grief for a second? It had been some time since he had seen such an expression on his nephew's face. "I'm sorry, Marco," Stocke said, "but I have proof. Take a look at this letter."

Marco took it with trembling hands. Mimel drew back, murmuring a soft _'no'_ under her breath. _How did he get hold of this?_ Heiss could hear her lament.

"A letter? It's addressed to you, Mimel, and it says— _Mimel_ _!_ " Marco had gone white as a sheet. "What's this about?!"

Heiss could sense that Mimel's horror also stemmed from long-hidden feelings. She had cared for this boy, once.

"I'll tell you," said Stocke. "It means she's working against Cygnus."

Mimel heard a few curses hissed in her direction. Some customers rose from their seats, their gazes filling with murderous intent. She stifled a sob, now realizing she wouldn't get out of this alive.

Marco shook his head. "Say it isn't true, Mimel..."

Mimel wrung her hands together. She could have said something—she could have said she only wanted to survive—but the words seemed foolish to her ears. She had accepted her fate.

"No answer, eh?" said Stocke. "Well, your silence is loud enough." He advanced toward her, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You're under arrest."

"I knew it. What goes around, comes around," Mimel said with a sigh. She then directed her gaze toward her old companion. "I'm sorry, Marco. What your friend's saying is true."

Marco grabbed Stocke's arm, tugging on it. "S-Stocke! Please, let her go! You know very well what happens to captured spies!" Heiss wondered why he sounded so desperate. From the girl's memories, it hadn't seemed like they had been that close. "Her cover's already been blown! How much more damage could she do now that we know about her? Please, Stocke, I'm begging you! Show some mercy!"

Strange images flashed in Heiss' mind as he heard the boy's plea. The corpses of Stocke's friend Rosch and the mercenary Raynie. Blood sprayed on the walls of the Royal Hall. The boy Marco, snarling and rushing at Stocke, sword dripping with red. Heiss was seized with a terrible headache. _Another failed timeline?_ he wondered. _What could have happened then?_

Stocke's voice was what brought him back to reality. "I can't knowingly let you continue spying on Cygnus. I'm going to have to tell Garland about you."

"Stocke, no!" Marco tightened his hold on Stocke's arm, his voice cracking with desperation. Stocke himself faltered on his feet for a moment. _He seems so vulnerable_ , Heiss realized. _Why does he hesitate so?_

"But I don't plan on selling your friend out either, Marco," Stocke finally said, to the surprise of the people watching the scene. "Tell me who you're working for, and I'll let you go."

For the first time, Heiss could feel a smile gracing the lips of Mimel, one that was echoed on Marco's face. _Thank you, thank you!_ she whispered within herself. She wasn't aware that Heiss did not share her sentiment.

"I'm... I'm working for someone you know," she managed, "it's... it's..."

She choked on the last word as Heiss began to draw the last bit of life that remained inside her. Mimel clutched at her throat, black terror engulfing her.

Heiss was aware that the boy Marco was screaming, drowning Mimel's own cries of pain, but he could only direct his attention toward Stocke. Despair. Yes, there was no doubt now, despair was etched on every inch of the young man's face.

 _He's learned a measure of the world's evil, apparently._ The thought left him cold, oddly. That would chisel away some of Ernst's still remaining naivety, but... No happiness, no satisfaction came as he saw through the girl's eyes the anguish gripping the two young men in front of Mimel.

 _This hollowness is an acceptable price for the boy's safety_. It would be over soon anyway. Stocke would learn to live with his guilt. Much like his uncle did. Still, this very night, Heiss went to sleep with the girl's screams ringing in his ears and the image of Stocke's hateful blue-green gaze staring at him, judging. _Better than his uncle did..._

* * *

_The weapon had wiped the Cygnan army off the face of the continent. Hugo had been so pleased he'd barely reacted to the news that the troops that had been deployed to Skalla had been thrown out of the city by a force of rebels. Obviously, he had deemed this recent threat a minor inconvenience, especially in the light of the potency of Fennel's pet project. Unlike Hugo, however, Heiss was aware that the rebels that had overtaken Skalla were more dangerous than the High General believed. Of course they were; they were led than none other than the exiled Lieutenant General Raul. Worse still, was the presence of Stocke at his side. Hugo had not realized how formidable a team they made, and Heiss hadn't thought it necessary to tell him.  
_

_Still, the success of the Divine Judgement allowed Heiss to finally move in and out of Granorg, where Hugo now held court. The General did not need his counselling and supervision so much, now. He would certainly be able to fall from grace without Heiss' help._

_Heiss set up residence at the edge of Judgement Cliff and remained there, knowing full well that the territories around the Sand Fortress were still in the reach of the Divine Judgement. He sent the most slavishly devoted of his shadows to do his bidding. Heiss had never felt truly welcome in any of the other shadows' bodies; the remaining bit of soul that kept them alive fought him at every turn whenever he insinuated himself in its host's corpse. This was not the case with this particular shadow, the oldest in his little pack. It was broken beyond repair, its once-strong will battered and bruised, its flesh ever on the verge of rotting away to nothingness. The piece of soul would always scream whenever Heiss came, but after a while it would then hide in some corner of their shared mind, cowed._ As it should be, _Heiss thought darkly._

_The shadow had no care whether or not it would end a victim of the Divine Judgement. It did as Heiss commanded, never uttering a word. Along the way to the Sand Fortress, it happened upon some corpses left unburied. Rather than have then become food for the crows, the shadow raised them at its side with the Black Chronicle. They continued their march, unencumbered by the animals that roamed the wild. The beasts kept their distances, well aware that this prey was unnatural, dangerous._

_The rebels had set camp in the Sand Fortress, unaware that the ancient stronghold would protect them very little against the Divine Judgement. The shadow could now see the fortress from afar. A grassy plain separated Heiss' servant from the tall ramparts of stone. In the middle of the green expanse stood a lonely tree, under which the shadow could glimpse two familiar forms. Deep from within the dead man's mind, Heiss felt something stirring._

_The shadow inched closer, draping itself under the protection of the Vanish spell._

_"As I suspected," the shadow now could hear Eruca's voice. "You're the holder. The wielder of the White Book of Flux."_

_It was hard to see Stocke's expression, but his very body language suggested surprise._

_"You must have been made to vow never to speak of it by the Chronicle's guide," Eruca continued. "But I've hit upon it, haven't I? So the vow you made should bear no weight before me. Please, then, tell me."_

_Stocke's answer was too faint for the shadow to hear. Eruca also responded_ _in a murmur. The shadow crept closer, taking care not to make any sound._

_"—there's one more thing," Stocke said. "There should be another book, one of a paired set with the White Chronicle. Do you know where it is?"_

_The shadow abruptly stopped in its tracks._

_"I don't know if it's one of a set, but—" Eruca hesitated. "I have at least been told that there's another book. The Black Book of Flux, the Black Chronicle. You most likely refer to that. But it was taken by someone long ago, and its whereabouts are still unknown."_

_Stocke nodded, muttering his assent._

_"Stocke," Eruca said, her voice tight, "there's something else I should tell you. It's... it's very important."_

_"What is it?"_

_"Y-You're—" Was it Heiss' imagination or did she seem on the verge of tears? "You're actually my—!"_

_"No!" a child's voice cried._

_The two siblings tensed. Heiss himself couldn't believe his eyes; a small Satyros girl was running toward them, her face flushed red with anger._

_"Aht?" Stocke called out. He sounded irritated._

_"I don't want you to go anywhere!" the Satyros child said. Great big tears were rolling down her cheeks._

_"Wait, Aht, what are you saying? I'm not going anywhere... wait, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"_

_"I don't like it!" The child stomped on the ground with her little hooved feet._

_"I understand there's something you don't like," Stocke said wearily. "Just tell me why you're crying."_

_Eruca softly uttered the child's name. The Satyros girl whirled on her, eyes ablaze. "Eruca!"_

_"Y-Yes?"_

_"No taking away Stocke!"_

_This time, it was Heiss who had to bite back a gasp._ Just who is this child? How can she...?

_Eruca brought her hands to her mouth. "Stocke, no, could you be...?"_

_It was Heiss' cue to act. With a flicker of purple energy, his shadow came into view, surrounded by the three risen corpses. Stocke jumped to his feet, sword and shield in hand, and pushed the princess behind him._

_"That's—" Eruca gasped, her eyes fixed on the tome the shadow held, "that's the Black Book of Flux!"_

_To Heiss' great surprise, the Satyros girl ran to his nephew's side. "I'm gonna protect Stocke!" The young man shot her an annoyed glance, but otherwise let her be._

_Through his shadow's eyes, Heiss could see Eruca pulling her rifle from its holster. Anger surged within him, and his shadows charged forward in response, ready to hack the princess into pieces. One was met with Stocke's blade, while another found his leg encased in a thick block of ice. The third rushed blindly at Eruca. The princess leaped away to evade his blow and, in a fluid motion, raised her gun to shoot in its direction. The magical burst of energy torn off one of its ears and part of its cheek. Heiss could see disgust and fear rippling over his niece's features._

_Mouth set in a grim line, she escaped another of its slashes and ran toward the little Satyros girl, the shadow closely following in her wake. It did not run for long; just a step behind Eruca, it suddenly burst into flames. The Satyros girl hopped on her feet, seemingly pleased._

_By then, Stocke had finished the two other shadows. He moved to peer closer at the two corpses... only to have them dissolve into sand. Eruca sharply drew a breath, and the Satyros girl—Aht, it seemed she was called—gave a loud exclamation of surprise._

_Its work done, the shadow wielding the Black Chronicle disappeared under the Vanish spell again._

_"They turned to sand?" said Eruca. "Is this the black energy at work?"_

_"He's always there, everywhere I go," replied Stocke. His eyes narrowed as he peered in the direction where the remaining shadow had retreated. "Is he the holder of the Black Chronicle?"_

_"I... I would say so."_

_"Then we'll have to deal with him somehow." Stocke sheathed his sword. "We'll perform the Ritual and save this continent. Is that all right with you, Eruca?"_

_Eruca nodded, but distress was written all over the girl Aht's face. Leagues away, Heiss' features were frozen in a similar expression._ He's already... he's already fallen for her tricks. How could he be so blind...?

_"Let's go back to where the others are waiting," said Stocke. He gave one final glance to where the shadow was hidden, then turned on his heel and left._

* * *

The tales of the rebel princess's mysterious protector even reached Alistel, crossing an entire continent to entertain the capital's citizens while the world crumbled around them. Granorg was all but at their doorstep, and their leaders had turned on one another to rip each other's throats rather than rise against the imminent threat. Heiss couldn't fault them for wishing that their soon-to-be queen would be taken down by her apparently more heroic daughter and her merry band of followers. If they had to suffer a Granorgite ruler, they'd rather have a young and pretty thing, after all. Weaker, they must have all thought silently to themselves. More malleable.

The rumours left Heiss seething, however.

 _What game is he playing at?_ He knew Stocke had helped Eruca win the allegiance of Cygnus through King Garland, using the force of the desert country to deal a crippling defeat to Colonel Dias and his famed knights north of Skalla, in the Itolia Wastelands.

Heiss was certain of the next step in his niece's plans. She would challenge her stepmother's authority in plain view of all, in the capital of Granorg. But to do that, she needed a bigger army.

Heiss hadn't expected that he would ever find himself in need of a Gutral shadow to infiltrate the Beastkind's ancestral home of Forgia. He had been forced to go back a few weeks before the defeat of the Dias knights to head to the Gutral territories as quickly as he could. The oldest of his shadows followed him, as always.

It was this shadow that Heiss sent to the Holff ruins, Black Chronicle in hand. The dead servant walked through the depths of the Abyssinian forest, day and night, never stopping even as its limbs began to burn with pain, even as its feet blistered and bled black, thick blood.

It was met in the ruins by a group of Gutrals who questioned the cloaked stranger. The man was not welcome here. He was human. He was trespassing on holy grounds. The shadow slaughtered them all, and they rose to serve as well. They stalked after him as he went deeper into the old temple, the gazes of strange beasts and monsters following them from the dark. In the innermost part of the Holff ruins laid the remains of a giant spider, half-decayed and covered with shining crystals of Mana. Under the silent stares of the murdered Gutrals, it walked again, flexing its long limbs, staring at its new master with dead eyes that could not see.

And then Victor waited.

The first sound that broke the emptiness of the ruin was the cheerful voice of a child. Victor kept to the darkness as a group arrived in the large chamber where stood the altar that granted the Beast Mark to those it deemed worthy. There, he saw the familiar form of his nephew _(Son! His son!)_ and even the golden curls of his niece _(Daughter!_ screamed the shadow. _She's_ my _daughter!)_. Stocke's two subordinates accompanied them, but the shadow could also spy a small child amongst their midst. A Satyros girl, who was bouncing on her tiny hooved feet and chatting with the red-clad warrior most excitedly. _Who is this?_ Heiss wondered. _Why did they allow a child to follow them?_ Her face was familiar. His head began to hurt again...

Stocke looked at the altar. "So this is where we'll find the Beast Mark?"

"Yep, sure looks like it," the girl Raynie responded.

"Stocke!" Marco suddenly exclaimed. "There's something over there!" He was pointing directly where Victor stood. Stocke grew tense at the sight of the item that was hovering about the cloaked man's form; the Black Chronicle was pulsating with dark energy.

"He's—!" Stocke shouted, but he never had the time to finish speaking. In a swift movement, the Gutral shadow warriors were upon them.

The battle was a confused mess to watch. Stocke's comrades were no soldiers, one could see in their lack of discipline, but a sense of unity seemed to coordinate each of their actions. The mercenary Raynie jumped to the front of battle, but always she glanced to the back, where her friend the healer and the princess remained. The Satyros girl was hard to follow, her feet as nimble as her knives were swift; still, whenever she was cornered, Stocke would jump to her rescue, or Eruca would save her with a well-placed shot. Such a keen ability to sense one another could only be the result of many battles fought together.

When they killed the last shadow Gutral, they could not even stop to take a breath. With one extended arm, Victor directed the dead spider toward them. Marco and Eruca gasped, and there was one loud curse that could only have come from the girl Raynie. Stocke, for his part, just regarded the beast with the look of someone who had just developed a profound hatred for the universe as a whole.

"Aht! Make sure you stay behind this time, okay?" cried Raynie.

"B-But..." the child protested.

"Do as Raynie says," Stocke commanded. One moment later, the shadow spider rushed to attack Eruca, who retaliated by launching a slew of ice daggers at its face, before shooting one of its many eyes with a pistol she whipped out of her coat. At the sound of the gunshot, Heiss could feel the hatred building within him.

Stocke followed by hurling a ball of flames at its side. The beast was still afire when the girl Raynie made a bolt of lightning crash down upon its writhing form; while it stood paralysed, contorting in pain, she leaped further, slashing at the creature's legs with her spear.

"Stocke!" Marco shouted. The boy had thrown a grappling hook upon the great beast's head, bringing it closer to the ground. Victor—or rather Heiss—stood transfixed as Stocke broke into a run and jumped on the spider's partly exposed exoskeleton; he stabbed the arachnid again and again until the flaying creature shrugged him off. Stocke crashed into a wall, to his comrades' great distress. The healer immediately rushed to his side.

Heiss sensed the spider's rotting body wouldn't hold much longer. Another gunshot erupted, tearing an enormous hole through which one could spy the decarying insides of the creature. Heiss could feel its awareness dimming— _not that it had much in the first place._

Heiss released his hold on the spider, admitting defeat.

Victor's gaze rested on Stocke. The boy was panting, and he clutched at his chest, sometimes wincing. Still, the smile he flashed to his friends as they hurried to his side told them—and Heiss—that his wounds were not that severe. With a jolt that nearly sent him back to his real body, Heiss realized this was the first time he'd seen the boy give such a genuine smile—such an _Ernst_ -like smile.

Heiss did not want to ponder the implications behind this. Leaving the young man to his comrades, he had Victor's body vanish into the shadows again. He had to quickly plot for their next encounter with Stocke, or else he would again taste the bitterness of defeat.

Heiss woke to the dark dampness of his tent. The noises of the jungle greeted him from outside. He grabbed his head—it was still painful—and tried to remember the parallel timelines he'd glimpsed through his dream. He could recall meeting the Satyros girl through one of his shadows, and a battle where Eruca had fought alongside Stocke, but otherwise...

Heiss spat out a curse. He would have thought he'd gotten better at interpreting his dreams, but it was not so. Most of the images fluttered away to nothingness every time he woke, leaving him mostly with half-remembered impressions and a growing sense of rage.

Had he been too careless in handing the White Chronicle to Stocke? Should he travel back to before he had gifted the book to his nephew, to undo all of the troubles the boy had sown with it? Scowling, Heiss shook his head. No, it would be better to let everything run its course. He had to see this through. And in time, Stocke would come to him.

 _If not,_ Heiss thought, an ugly grin deforming his features, _I'll make him come to me. And this time, I'll make him see reason. Even if it makes him hate me._ Alive and hateful was better than dead, after all.

* * *

_Hugo was shouting again. Heiss stood patiently outside the man's office as the man let out his rage, waiting for the perfect opportunity to get in. He could sense the sneers in each of Selvan's replies. Fury coloured each of the young Count's words as well, the wound of his friend (Heiss was sure they had been more than that, but he lacked a better word) Dias' death as fresh and gaping as it had been back in Granorg. Only, the young man was intelligent enough to keep it hidden. He was an interesting fellow; Heiss would be sad to see him go._

_"You scum!" bellowed Hugo. "Have you forgotten how you came to me tail between your legs, and begged for your life after betraying your queen?!"_

_"Plead for my life?" Selvan's laugh was an ugly one. "Me? Surely you've confused me with someone else? Do not distort the truth to suit your convenience!"_

_"You surrendered. That much should be clear to you."_

_Selvan snorted in disgust. "What would you know? Dias and I..." His voice became soft with grief. "Our goal was to lay the foundation of a new kingdom. That is why we forfeited Protea. That kept the casualties to a minimum."_

_A thick silence preceded Hugo's coming words. "You're saying you used us?"_

_"That was the plan. But now Dias is slain, and I am broken. It's over. But that doesn't mean I intend to stay aboard your sinking ship."_

_"You bastard! You think you can escape!?"_

_"Tut, tut, what nonsense. You're the one who escaped. But not for long. The rebels are on their way to erase you from history itself. "_

_Heiss rolled his eyes at Selvan's words._

_"Farewell," the Count then told Hugo. "It shall be my name they write about in the texts of future generations."_

_Heiss stood waiting by the door as Selvan left Hugo's office. The Count's eyebrow slowly, slowly rose at the sight of Heiss' amiable smile._

_"Ah, Count Selvan," Heiss said, "where might you be off to?"_

_Selvan's grimace was truly something to behold. "It doesn't concern you. The dream Dias and I shared to give birth to an ideal kingdom will be my reality one day. I'll be remembered as the man who reshaped the world."_

_It took every bit of Heiss' willpower not to laugh. "Ah, lofty goals. But alas..."_

_A little gasp escaped Selvan's lips as the dagger entered his stomach. His eyes swelled slightly, and with an unsteady hand he tried to grab Heiss' shoulder to hoist himself up. Heiss gave him a slight push, and the man fell to the ground, his once handsome features distorted by pain and hate._

_"Gah...! Y-You bastard...!"_

_"Pathetic men like you do not shape history," said Heiss. "Hearing you prattle on about it offends me." He knelt to the dying Count's side, then cut his throat with a swift slice. The man's eyes rolled back behind his head._

_Heiss stepped over Selvan's corpse to enter Hugo's office. For once, the General appeared pleased. Heiss found it both indecent and annoying._

_"Well done, Heiss. You have my thanks for dealing with that wretched mess. Had a man like him been kept alive, I'm sure he would rise to interfere with my ambitions."_

_Heiss considered the General as he cleaned his knife with a handkerchief. The man had been useful to a point... but he had failed too much at the tasks Heiss had given him._ I should have known, he is so very like Victor in that aspect, _thought Heiss._

_"Consider it a parting gift," Heiss replied with a cool smile._

_"What...?" Hugo's gaping mouth was almost comical._

_"I was a fool to think you were capable of creating even the smallest wrinkle in history," Heiss said. "My patience with you has run its course. Do as you will with your fleeting life." He spun on his heel to leave._

_"W-Wait!"_

_Heiss stopped, granting the man a quirk of the eyebrow.  
_

_"If we combine our manpower, we could have well over a thousand troops!" Heiss wondered where Hugo found these numbers. How had he risen to his ranks with such a shaky grasp on reality? "Besides, the rebel army is disbanding, and those brutes have returned to their villages! We can... With the right strategy, we can turn the tide of this war!"_

_"Really, Hugo," Heiss felt like a parent scolding a particularly idiotic child. "Are you so incapable of seeing the truth without Noah at your side?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Your personal guard has already abandoned you."_

_"T-That can't be!" Hugo drew back, and he held onto his desk almost as if he needed it to stay on his feet._

_"Selvan said so himself just a moment ago," said Heiss. "No idiot would stay on a sinking ship. Your five-hundred soldiers have joined the winning team. The rebels."_

_"That's... That's impossible..."_

_"Well, I hate to leave on a low note, but I should be going," Heiss said, turning away. If he spared one more second to look at Hugo he knew he would attack the man. "Men of power can't seem to do anything right, so I'll have to take care of things myself."_

_"Wait!" Hugo cried. "You can't just leave me! What are you going to do about this country!? My country... Alistel!"_

_Heiss left without so much as a glance backward._

* * *

_He couldn't help but feel a stir in his heart whenever he looked upon his surroundings._

_The castle library had not changed since Heiss had last seen it. So many things had escaped the cracked confines of his defective memory, but that place—the soft light of the candles, the plush, burgundy carpets, the lines and rows of books ancient beyond his family's time—had apparently left enough of a mark on his being that he could recall it without a fault. To see the beloved books that had been his only friends in his boyhood splattered with blood was heart-wrenching. To smell the stench of death in this peaceful place was obscene._

_Heiss was seated on a wooden bench the boy Heinrich had often sat on, contemplating the claws of his Gauntlets as they dripped with red. The corpses of the guardsmen who had been protecting the entrance to the Royal Hall were scattered about the library, The beautiful carpet drank their blood hungrily, and angry gashes of crimson desecrated the_ _intricately decorated walls. Heiss sighed again. The poor books. It would be difficult to scrub off the blood. Such a waste..._

 _Heiss stood up. He had waited long enough. He couldn't allow_ _Eruca to perform the Ritual of Flux._ She must be stopped, _Heiss thought,_ or all my plans will come to nothing. We're nearly there, Stocke. _Heiss turned to face the open entrance to the Royal Hall._ Just a little longer...

_Heiss went into the ruins, coat flapping behind him._

* * *

_While gazing upon the castle library had been a bittersweet experience, Heiss couldn't say the same when his eyes fell upon the decrepit columns and moss-eaten stones of the Royal Hall. Fear and hatred mingled in his chest in equal parts. Heiss had to stop for a few seconds to gather his thoughts and chase away his apprehension. Fear was something the boy Heinrich had been plagued with, but hatred was the mark of the man he had become, and a much stronger motivator._

_Underneath his feet Heiss could feel the great flow of Mana that coursed through the continent. He had sensed this current only twice before, once when he had been but a slave hoping to use Isla's teachings to escape, and another time, when he had murdered Victor to save Ernst from his fate. The barrier that separated this current with the real world was thinner in the Royal Hall, after all. The river of life felt diminished, having been ripped apart by the use of the Divine Judgement. Before, Heiss could have never even entertained the thought of seizing it for his own uses. Now, it was so thin he could forcibly grasp it as easily as he snatched the thread of Mana from his shadow servants._

_The sounds of footsteps took him out of his reverie. Heiss smiled; Stocke had come, at last._

_"Heiss!" Stocke appeared barely able to keep his voice steady, a far cry from his usually collected persona._

_Heiss faced him. Behind Stocke was the strangest of assemblies; alongside him stood the two mercenaries he had assigned to his nephew and the hulking brute Stocke called friend, but with them Heiss could also spy the Satyros child named Aht and a Gutral whose features were unknown to him._

_Heiss cocked his head to the side, amused. "You've come, Stocke."_

_"No way," said Raynie._

_"So it_ was _you," said Stocke. He did not sound as surprised as his comrades. "Why?"_

_"I aim to stop the Ritual," replied Heiss. "And the reason for that, Stocke, is to spare your life."_

_Whatever Stocke thought he would hear, it was clearly not that. "What?" the boy said, but before he could continue the Satyros girl came forward. She clutched at Stocke's arm so tight her knuckles grew white.  
_

_"It's the same," she whispered, "Stocke, you and this man have the same—" She covered her mouth, falling silent._

_Heiss smiled at the child. She hid behind Stocke. "Ah, the Beastkind has noticed. A shaman of Celestia, from the looks of her. I see. Of course she'd realize." He tried to think of Isla, but the face of the other Satyros had become lost to the darkness eating away at his memory._ No matter _, thought Heiss. It did not matter._

_"Aht...?" Stocke said, looking down at the girl. She bit down her lip and shook her head._

_"Peace, Stocke," Heiss reassured him. "The Beastkind most likely shares my esteem. She wants to save you too."_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_Heiss let out a little laugh. "You'll find out sooner or later." He began to call on the powers of the Black Chronicle. Beneath him, the river of Mana stopped abruptly; it fought and fought as he worked to redirect its flow toward him. "Enough idle chatter, though. Let's get to business."_

_Stocke's companions cried out in surprise as Heiss' feet left the ground, a dark glow surrounding him. Absurdly, the hated memory of Victor casting the spell for the Ritual, still as clear today as it had been decades ago, came rushing to his mind. The magic Victor had called upon then had been similar to the one Heiss was using now. Heiss swatted away the disgusting thought._

" _W-What the...?!" Heiss could hear Rosch exclaim. The Royal Hall was shaking, and suddenly Raynie was holding onto Stocke for dear life, while the Gutral caught the Satyros girl to stop her from falling as she screamed. Rosch toppled to the ground and held himself up with his Gauntlet. The boy Marco collapsed to his knees, gasping. They could all feel it, how he'd seized the Mana coursing beneath their feet. Possibly all the continent could feel it. Finally, it all stopped, and Heiss' feet returned to the ground with a soft_ thud _._

_Heiss noticed how the girl Raynie clung to Stocke. He frowned._

_"What the hell did you do?" the boy only snarled._

_Heiss shrugged. All trace of good humour had disappeared from his voice as he spoke. "I suppressed the power of Flux. Now, Eruca can't perform the Ritual anymore."_

" _W-What?!" said Rosch. "If you do that..."_

_"This world will eventually be engulfed in sand," Heiss completed._

_"Don't worry," the Gutral man said, "we only need the queen to restore the power of Flux."_

_"Fools!" roared Heiss."Did you think I'd use a spell that could be so easily countered? It can only be broken from the Imperial Ruins!" He forced his stare into Stocke's gaze, hoping the boy would finally get the message._

_"The Imperial Ruins," Stocke repeated after him, holding Heiss' gaze without faltering._

_"I'll be waiting for you there. Meet me at the ruins, and I'll tell you everything." He grasped the powers of the Black Chronicle again to make his escape. Even as he sensed himself being dragged to Historia, it seemed to him that Stocke's hate-filled gaze was still upon him._

Good, _Heiss thought as he appeared in front of Teo and Lippti for what he hoped was the very last time,_ let him hate me. Hatred is a much stronger motivator than despair, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So now there's only two chapters remaining, plus an epilogue. Next time, prepare your Madoka Magica OSTs as Heiss succumbs to despair and turns into a PMMM-style witch!
> 
> Thank you, good beta, for your hard work and dedication. And thank you guys for staying with me this far. It's really appreciated *heart*


	25. Chapter 23 - Call for Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since from now on I'll be extensively using/paraphrasing some of the game's script, I feel another disclaimer is in order: everything RH related belongs to Atlus. Some of the quotes here aren't mine either, they were written by the original Japanese scenarist/the English localization team.

"Heiss, what have you _done?_ "

Teo's words elicited a chuckle from Heiss. The boy-shaped construct seemed barely able to hide his revulsion.

"I didn't quite believe I would succeed in keeping you two in the dark. Considering that troublesome ability of yours to peek into possible futures, I thought you would manipulate Stocke into stopping me. And yet you failed!"

They had both been too focused on the threat of the Divine Judgement, Heiss knew. They had completely forgotten that he held within his grasp an even more dangerous tool.

"You are the ones who told me the Black Chronicle was responsible for the first Mana breach, remember?" Heiss continued, rubbing it in. "Did you believe in me so little that you did not think I would find out how such a feat is accomplished?"

"We believed in you, but not in the manner you speak of," was Lippti's response. "Heiss, what do you think this will truly accomplish?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you," spat Heiss.

Their eyes reflected disgust, anger and even bewilderment all in short succession.

"What do you expect Stocke to do after you've caused the world to come crashing down around him? Do you truly expect you two will survive long after the collapse of all society?"

Heiss glared at Teo. "This world has already been broken once, and people have still managed to live on. We humans are hard to kill." _Cockroaches, the lot of us_. "Stocke and I will manage quite well on our own."

"You're mad," Lippti said, shaking her head. "You have no idea of what you will unleash if—"

"I know perfectly well what I'm doing." A great hunger was rising inside of him. Stopping the river of Mana that flowed within the continent and grabbing it for his own needs had slightly appeased it. The surge of energy had left him delirious with power, but not sated. His hands were shaking, his mouth was dry. He needed to feed. Every fibre of his being screamed for _more_.

Heiss was not a patient man. The hunger was urging him to ignore the twins and move forward. His body happily obliged to the command, his ears blocking out the hateful noises of Teo and Lippti's voices as his legs brought him back to the real world—back to the heart of the wound that had been inflicted on the continent so long ago.

* * *

Heiss knew he had been to the Imperial Ruins as a young man. It had been his very first destination as a newly awakened wielder of the White Chronicle. As always, the twins had been very unhelpful as to what his duty entailed, so he had thought to search for answers at the very core of the problem. He recalled little about this journey, other than the persistent and urgent fear that had dogged Heinrich. Why had his younger self been so anxious? Heiss had no means of remembering. But then again, Heinrich had always been a pitiful little thing: timid, fearful and so weak. If he had possessed but one tenth of the strength Heiss now possessed— _then things would have been very different._ The thought was bittersweet.

The remains of the Empire's capital had been buried under centuries' worth of sand, but the great temple of its ruling priests still stood as grand as ever. The stone columns had been smoothed down by wind and rain and dust, but they rose higher than thrice as tall as a man, piercing the blue sky of the desert. The great gates had been forced open by looters in the fall of the Empire and had stayed thus since then. The unluckiest of the thieves had been torn to pieces by the ancient Thaumatech guardians the Imperial family had left behind in their flight. The others had escaped back to Granorg only to be hunted down for theft of royal propriety. The Imperial Ruins had garnered a dark reputation ever since.

Heiss found his most loyal servant already inside. He addressed no words to his brother's shade, and the latter did not seem to even register his presence. He went deeper into the ruins, the sounds of his footsteps and the soft whirring of the Thaumachines hidden in the shadows being the only noises disrupting the vast emptiness. Tiny bits of Mana crystals broke and crunched under his boots. Heiss was surprised to find so many. Long vines grew on the walls of the Ruins, adding a touch of colour that stood out vividly against the grey stone. A bit of life was slowly winning out against the raw power of the Mana breach underneath his feet. _Not for much longer,_ Heiss thought.

He sat in the depths of the ruins, waiting. His shadow would tell him of Stocke's arrival. Still, the hours that passed by were unbearable. All of his senses were afire, painfully so. The strength he had gained as he had seized the stream of Mana in the Royal Hall had faded. He leaped from elation to despair back and forth in quick succession, the process leaving him drained and shaking. Heiss needed to find another source, and fast.

His prayers came answered when Stocke and his companions finally arrived at the threshold of the ruins. Heiss had Victor come to greet them. The ragtag bunch immediately drew their weapons at the sight of Heiss' cloaked servant. Heiss was displeased to see Eruca was not among them.

"You again?" yelled Rosch.

Stocke raised an arm to stop his friend from charging. From under his hood, the shadow grinned. "He's going to—" Stocke began.

From behind Victor, three shadowy figures were gathering. The reanimated body of a desert beast growled at the mismatched assembly of humans and Beastkind. Two cube-shaped Thaumatech, hijacked by the powers of the Black Chronicle, hovered by Victor's sides. Magical energy crackled within the palm of Heiss' shadow.

Stocke rushed forward to keep Victor's shade from casting its spell. The dead desert beast ran past him, claws out and ready to tear apart the two smallest members of Stocke's group—the healer Marco and the young Satyros girl. Stocke halted for a mere second, his mouth opening in a silent cry; his hesitation allowed his father's shadow to leap out of range. Its spells caught square in the chest the two fighters who had charged right behind Stocke. The girl Raynie and that brute Rosch screamed in agony.

 _"No!"_ shouted Stocke as the spell blasted his two companions across the room.

The mercenary woman was the first to hobble back on her feet. She propped herself up with her spear and mouthed something to Stocke, raising a feeble arm to point at the shadow. Stocke took the hint, moving to attack his father's reanimated corpse once more, his expression obscured by his hair and scarf.

One of the two Thaumachines came to block Stocke's path. Startled, the young man swung his sword, the blade hitting the thick metal of the contraption with a loud clang. Heiss sucked in a sharp breath as he beheld his nephew's sword. Were Victor's eyes deceiving him or was Stocke wielding Historica? An average blade would be inefficient against Thaumatech, but Historica's ability to manipulate Flux could very much disrupt the flow of Mana that allowed it to function. _Just how on earth did he get his hands on this sword?_ With each of Stocke's moves, a faint trail of green light followed. How bizarre it was, to see Samra's sword at work again, in the hands of another. In the hands of _Stocke_ , no less.

A sharp, but brief pain shot through Heiss' head, telling him that the desert beast was gone. The Gutral and the two younger members of Stocke's group had brought it down, but at a high cost; the boy Marco's coat was torn in several places and he now sported a definite limp, while young Aht's cloak could barely hide the great red gashes she had on her arm. The three comrades had no time to rest, as one of the cube Thaumachines was readying another attack.

Heiss—through Victor's body—directed his focus on Stocke once more. A bolt of pure dark energy crackled down on the boy. Stocke sealed his lips, muffling his scream, as his limps shuddered under the assault. Something had absorbed most of the magical energy, but the spell had been strong enough to make Stocke stagger. This time, when his nephew lifted a face covered in a thin film of sweat, Heiss could make out his expression. Stocke was hurting—and _hating_.

Raynie and Rosch had recovered enough to hurry to his side. Rosch seemed barely able to stop his legs from shaking. For her part, Raynie was panting heavily, and she leaned on her spear for support. Yet, they stood at Stocke's side all the same. The sight of them together made bile rise inside of Heiss' mouth.

The battle that followed was over in the blink of an eye. Raynie called a bolt of lightning down on the Thaumachine cube, freezing it into place. Rosch then charged, pushing it toward where the Satyros girl was standing. A mere second before one of the child's magical traps tore through the old machine, Heiss understood what was going to happen. At the same time, Stocke leaped forward, narrowly evading a burst of energy coming from the shadow. His sword—Historica—burrowed itself in Victor's gut. The shadow gave no scream, not even a murmur indicating it was in pain. Stocke frowned. Before he could do anything else, a dark aura pulsated around the shadow's form. Heiss could not help but give a curse as he released his hold on the oldest—and the last, he feared—of his servants.

Heiss' disgust grew tenfold as he returned to his real body. A hiss filtered through his grit teeth when he opened his eyes. It took a few moments for his vision to adjust to the surrounding gloom. The Black Chronicle was heavy in his lap. A light thrumming told him a Thaumachine was nearby. With a violent sweep of the arm, Heiss reached for the bit of Mana that dwelled inside the automaton before directing a bolt of lightning to fry the now dead mechanism inside. He imagined the wires and metal going black and twisted inside the machine. He wished he could do the same to any living being that could be idiotic enough to find him right now. _Wait_ , a part of him whispered. _Save your anger. They'll be here soon._

Heiss stood up and brushed the dirt off his coat. Perhaps it was time that he instead found Stocke. _I will meet him halfway_ , Heiss decided with a smile. Yes, his nephew would like that. _Show him I'm willing to cooperate._ Heiss' smile soured, and he shook his head. _Unlike him._

He set out to search for the boy.

* * *

Heiss found him before Stocke could even take note of his presence. The boy was but a couple of lengths away from him, standing at the bottom of the stairs above which Heiss stood. Heiss' nephew was waiting for the rest of his followers to catch up. _Of course, he ran ahead of them._ Even now, the boy's natural curiosity and need for truth was trumping anything else. It was a good sign. With a crackle of energy, Heiss reappeared, arms extended in greeting.

Stocke replied by drawing his blade. "Heiss!"

In response, Heiss only draped himself under the Vanish spell, before coming into view a mere step behind Stocke. The young man tensed, immediately recognising just how much he was in danger. Behind Heiss, Stocke's companions gave frightened shouts as dark energy filled Heiss' palms.

"You're finally here," Heiss said. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" He peered closer into Stocke's face, finding new lines near his blue-green eyes, lines that hadn't been there the last time he had met with the boy. "Or did we just see each other? I've jumped around so much in time that I don't even know anymore."

Heiss had been careless as he spoke. With a twist of his feet, Stocke slipped out of Heiss' reach. In response, the latter only vanished once more, easily escaping Historica's bite. Heiss reappeared at the top of the stairs; he loomed in silent disdain over Stocke as the boy remained rooted to his spot, down below. It seemed Stocke had realized he had no chance of landing a direct hit on his old mentor. With a slow exhalation, he dropped to a less aggressive stance.

"You're the wielder of the Black Chronicle," said Stocke.

"That's correct," answered Heiss, "Stocke, wielder of the _White_ Chronicle." He watched the reactions of Stocke's comrades with a careful eye. Their faces showed no hint of surprise. Heiss folded his arms, and continued, "I realized that you were using the Chronicle after that incident in Hugo's office. Up to that point, even I hadn't figured it out. I assume Lippti and Teo said to keep its existence a secret?" _You didn't listen to them on that point, did you?_ Heiss thought as he looked to Stocke's followers. _Good._

"You know about them too," said Stocke.

"Why so surprised? I'm the one who gave you the White Chronicle, after all."

"Then, why did you give it to me? What were you hoping to accomplish by having me awaken the White Chronicle?"

"It's easy," Heiss said, carefully choosing his next words. "I want you to be my successor."

Stocke's face was blank. "Your successor?"

Heiss could barely stop his voice from shaking with emotion. "In order to succeed me, you first had to awaken the White Chronicle and gain its power. And so I gave you the book before sending you on an impossible mission." _The age-old method_ , he thought angrily, and the buried memory of Victor proposing to have him beaten came unbidden. Heiss shooed it back into the depths of his mind. "I hoped to show you the world's true nature, to train you, and to awaken the White Chronicle. What I didn't expect was for that awakening to happen much sooner than I planned. Or that you had the acting skill to hide it from me."

"Judging from the situation as it stands," Stocke said evenly, "I was right to do so."

Heiss' mouth formed the barest hint of a smile. "You truly are Specint's best agent. I underestimated your guile."

"Enough about that," growled Stocke. "What's that drivel about me being your successor?"

"I meant just what I said. I need a successor to carry on my plan. My plan to lead this world back to its original path. Back to its destruction."

"Inducing desertification and destroying the world." Stocke sounded incredulous. "That's your plan?"

Heiss nodded. Stocke's companions just stared at him, mouths agape. A snarl briefly distorted Heiss' features at the sight of them. How he hated these parasites!

"What are you thinking?" Stocke exclaimed. "Why would I willingly carry on with such a preposterous idea? Find someone else!"

Heiss drummed his fingers alongside his arms. The strange sound was back ringing in his ears again.

"No, it has to be you," said Heiss. "You're just like me."

"What? What do you mean by that?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" Heiss said, laughing. "You seem to have saved this world from certain destruction a few times with the White Chronicle."

"Don't change the subject! Answer the question, Heiss!"

Heiss turned away from Stocke, acting as if he was going to walk away. The sounds of footsteps behind him told him his nephew had risen to the bait. Again, Heiss hid himself from view. He watched with a mixture of amusement and annoyance as the boy slashed into empty air.

Heiss reappeared a little further away. "Was this world actually worth saving? Did you ever ask yourself that?"

"What?" rasped Stocke.

"I've given it a lot of thought, over many years." _So, so many years…_ "And I've come to one conclusion." Heiss whirled on Stocke, eyes ablaze. "This world deserves death! That's why I won't allow the Ritual to take place!"

He couldn't take Stocke's unwillingness to understand anymore. With one last glare, he disappeared under the Vanish spell again, silently bidding Stocke to follow him into the deeper parts of the ruins.

* * *

Stocke and his companions dogged Heiss every step along the way. Even under the cover of invisibility, they seemed to know where he was, following his trail almost with ease. Heiss briefly wondered if the young Satyros shaman could see him even under the cover of the Vanish spell. It was a definite possibility.

Finally, Heiss allowed them to catch up with him at a dead end, somewhere near the centre of the ruins. He waited for Stocke to speak, but it was instead the girl Raynie who raised her voice first.

"There he is!" she shouted. "Heiss, I wanna know something..."

"Make it quick," snapped Heiss. "You're no longer part of anything important." He lazily cracked one eye open. She was glowering, rather petulantly in fact.

"That time when my mercenary crew got wiped out in a cave-in at the mine," the girl said. "Did you set that up?"

Heiss shrugged. "Finally caught on, did you?"

"No," she murmured. Her long-time companion—the healer, Marco—also let out a little gasp. "No, how could you do such a thing?"

"It was a necessary preamble for Stocke's awakening," Heiss explained. "I needed a little something to trigger it. After trying out countless permutations of history, I realized Stocke needed comrades. Partners with some skill, yet not so valuable that he would depend too much on them." The girl looked like she was about to vomit, and Marco's face had drained of blood. "They would be the key to Stocke's awakening. That's when I laid eyes on you two. All I needed to do then was to get you in my debt and have you leave your mercenary unit."

Heiss began to pace, remembering years' worth of preparations. "So I animated a monster's corpse and eliminated the unit, making it look like an accident. Though it took some doing to manipulate it so that only you two survived," he added almost sotto voce. "And thanks to you, Stocke found the power of Flux by awakening the White Chronicle. A simple trick, really. That's what controlling history is about."

"Y-You killed everyone in our unit over that?" Marco whimpered. "How... How could you...?"

 _"You monster!"_ screeched Raynie.

"Silence, girl!" Heiss growled back. The buzzing in his head was getting louder. "I told you that I have no further interest in the rest of you! Interfere with my conversation with Stocke at your peril!"

Stocke walked up to Raynie, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Raynie, Marco," he addressed his two companions, "I understand why you're angry. But there's still more I need him to tell me. Any punishment coming to him can wait until afterward."

The two locked eyes for a moment, then Raynie gave a small nod. Heiss scowled.

"Heiss, keep going from where you left off," Stocke said, his voice getting noticeably colder. "What did you mean when you said I'm like you?"

"No!" The small Satyros child ran to Stocke, grabbing his midsection like a lifeline. "Stocke! Don't listen to him!"

Still, Stocke's gaze remained trained on Heiss. The latter only shrugged, before saying, "So even after getting to know Eruca, you still don't realize who you are, Stocke? Or rather..."

"…Ernst," Stocke completed.

Heiss felt the corners of his mouth curl into a thin smile.

"Ernst?" Marco said. "The late prince of Granorg?"

"So that's it." Stocke continued, disregarding his companions' surprise. "I was the Sacrifice needed for the royal family to perform the Ritual." After a while, he added, "And so were you, weren't you, Heiss?"

Heiss gave a mocking bow. "Indeed. I am the younger brother of the late King Victor, and the Sacrifice in his Ritual."

"Wait," said Marco, "what's this about a Sacrifice? Stocke, what are you two talking about?"

"The Granorg royal family is the sole line capable of the Ritual to stop the desertification," Stocke elaborated. "Part of the Ritual involves giving the life of one of the royal siblings. The Sacrifice."

 _Perfectly parroted like the mindless little puppet his father and sister wanted to make of him._ "That's right," said Heiss. "This world owes its existence to those royals slain in the name of the Ritual. The people owe them a deep debt of gratitude." He began to pace once more. "Which is why the royal family is allowed to rule over this land. It's because all life on this continent exists by the royal family's sufferance!" The ringing had reached a frenzy in his ears. It was getting harder not to just attack these upstarts and be done with it.

"But clearly, you weren't sacrificed," was Stocke's response. "What happened?"

"As if I'd allow that fool Victor to rule as king while I gave my own life," snarled Heiss. "It was out of the question. So I escaped from him and set up shop in Alistel as Heiss."

"So you ran off, and Victor couldn't perform the ritual. And that's why he tried to make his children do it."

"Yes, and you would have been the next in line to be the Sacrifice, Ernst. You were killed as a Sacrifice by your own father, because you spoke out against him." Stocke remained silent as Heiss continued, "Originally, it was meant to be Eruca. But she seems to have behaved herself better—while your father was watching, at least. Thus, did she succeed in pushing the role as Sacrifice over to you. That cunning little minx!"

"You bastard—" Stocke began.

"After a Sacrifice is slain, they are given a soul for the Ritual," Heiss cut him off. "Eruca's soul was split. Part of it went to you, giving you a temporary life as a Sacrifice. But what a pitiful existence it is! Resurrected, only to die again! And only I can understand this pain, being one myself. You and I... we two are truly the forsaken ones!"

Stocke said nothing. The child hanging onto him gave a little sob.

"That's why I stole you away and altered your memories, to give you a second life as Stocke. I made sure to kill that fool Victor as well."

With a flash of blue light Heiss was gone from their sight.

"Dammit," cried out Raynie, "come out, you bastard!"

"This conversation isn't over yet!" Heiss shouted. "Come find me in the deepest parts of the ruins, Stocke! Alone! Only then will I give you the rest of the answers you need!"

Stocke let out an irritated noise in reply. Under the cover of invisibility, Heiss made his escape, hoping this time Stocke would heed his words and just leave those leeches he called friends behind. _If not…_ The boy surely knew what would happen then.

* * *

The deepest part of the ruins must have been an altar of some sort, once. The stone pedestal was now covered by a growth of Mana crystals. Heiss lay a hand over the cool mineral, drawing some of its powers to him; the warmth that then coursed through his veins only fanned the flames of his anger.

He soon found he was not alone. Heiss turned to face his nephew. The boy had chosen the hard path and had come with his little flock. They stayed well behind, eyeing Heiss warily as Stocke advanced toward him. The Satyros child was being held by the Gutral. Of all Stocke's companions, she seemed the most intent to follow him. Tears were streaming down her face.

"Heiss!" Stocke's voice pierced the empty air.

"Congratulations are in order for making it this far," Heiss said, not without some pride. "This is the deepest part of the ruins."

"Heiss, release your Flux seal at once."

"What a bold demand," Heiss gloated. "I'll win if I just sit here and keep it going, after all."

Stocke shot him a murderous look.

"Now, I have some questions of my own," said Heiss. "Tell me, Stocke... do you plan to return your soul to Eruca and become a true Sacrifice?"

Aht gave a little cry. The Gutral tightened his grasp on her to keep her silent.

"Surely by now you must realize what this entails," continued Heiss. "Throughout your travels, did you see a world worth throwing your life away for? I'm sure you've seen it countless times by now. Those on top who think only of themselves. The common people are oppressed, living in fear, all while the desertification spreads. And worst of all is that Ritual... that detestable practice! The blinkered Casters do nothing to address the blight's source and only murder another when the time is up! No one dares think how distorted this world is, unable to survive without relying on such methods!"

Heiss looked down at his hands; his gloves hid the web of scars that ran on his skin. And, _oh_ , Heiss remembered the worst of them all, the large angry mark that ran from his navel to his sternum, the one that had been left when Victor had cut him open to _murder_ him.

"How many Sacrifices have died for that cause?! And how many more will give their lives in the years to come!? Some express regret for their deaths, but sentiment is cheap. And as the barbaric practice continues, it only postpones the inevitable!" Heiss raked his Gauntlet against the great crystal, seizing a bit of mineral within his palm, and crunched it. The child Aht cried out again. "Yet the Caster comes away so satisfied, as if they've saved the world!"

Heiss' voice rose in a crescendo. "That's why the world should come to an end! It should be put out of its misery! We, the Sacrifices forsaken by this broken world, will be the ones to end it! It is justifiable revenge—a fair conclusion! That is the true history!"

"Heiss," Stocke simply said.

His reaction was too mild, Heiss found. It only made him angrier.

"Eruca seems to have led you by the nose without giving her reasons!" Heiss bellowed at Stocke. "Deep down, she was scheming to use you!"

"You're talking of things you know nothing about."

"It's the only thing that makes sense! Why sacrifice yourself for someone such as her? You and I, what we need to do isn't become Sacrifices. That's not it by half. Come now, Stocke... or rather, Ernst." Heiss extended his hand to Stocke again. "There's nothing to fear. We will not stray from the path. It's the world that's gone off the rails, not us. Let's fix this, you and I, two Sacrifices..."

"That's enough, Heiss," Stocke said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Don't say another word."

Heiss choked down a gasp of surprise. It would not do to appear weak in front of his nephew. "Ah! So you understand! You've been a wise one since you were a boy. You were closer to me than to your father." The last words had been but a whisper. "Your dedication made me happy, and I often took you out of the castle." He advanced toward Stocke. "So come with me, Ernst! And we'll live and travel through this dying world together, just as we did before."

Stocke began to climb up the stairs, his eyes hidden by his bangs. "I understand why you're doing this."

Heiss went to meet him. "Ernst… Ernst, finally you—" His sentence came to an abrupt end, and it was with a strangely delayed reaction that he realized that a long, but superficial gash had appeared across his chest. The tip of Historica was red with blood. Heiss raised empty eyes to his nephew.

"Release the Flux seal," Stocke said with stubborn finality.

A great weight seemed to have been lifted from Heiss' shoulders. He felt strangely void of any emotion. His eyes still fixed on his nephew, Heiss seized the Black Chronicle and reached for its powers. "So that's your answer, then?" Even his voice was hollow. "It is a pity."

The girl Aht yelled something to Stocke. With a start, the latter looked to his surroundings, his gaze growing decidedly unsure.

"The Flux's seal is released," a bewildered Stocke said. "Heiss, what are you—?"

"Did you think I'd had a change of heart?" replied Heiss. "What bilge. I did release it… so I could seal you with all the remaining power of Flux! You'll watch the world end from inside a prison in time that you won't ever be able to escape!"

He threw his coat and gloves away, revealing his Gauntlets. The Black Chronicle hovered about him, its powers bolstered by Heiss' rage. Stocke's comrades looked at him in horror and revulsion. Heiss could sense the flow of their Mana calling to him. His body sang with anticipated glee as he reached for the magical energy ready to be harvested, seeking to snap the thread of life inside their bodies. They writhed and cried out in pain, but an unknown force seemed to be anchoring their souls to their bodies. Heiss drew back in shock, allowing himself one glance at Stocke. _Could he have the Etherion as well?_ There was no time for him to hesitate. He'd have to take care of Stocke's followers another way.

His first target was their healer. The boy Marco stumbled on his feet as he heard rather than saw Heiss charging toward him. Heiss was instead met with the girl Raynie's spear. Her parry was not enough to deflect the force of Heiss' attack, and one Gauntlet pierced her defense, the bladed tips leaving deep clawing marks on her shoulders. Raynie grunted and attempted to push Heiss away. The latter was forced to leap to the side when a great red blur barrelled to girl's rescue. Heiss rolled out of Rosch's way, and directed a bolt of dark energy toward the armoured giant. With a yell, Rosch toppled over, and his Gauntlet scraped the ground in an attempt to hoist himself up. Stocke's cry of desperation tore through the room.

Heiss vanished once more. From the corner of his eye, he could see something crimson swiftly approaching. Heiss caught the blade of Historica in one hand, the blow resounding in his very bones. A biting cold had also began to climb his leg, and he noticed not without some surprise that a thick layer of ice was growing around his foot. One of the Satyros girl's traps, no doubt. A battle cry flared somewhere behind him, telling him the Gutral warrior was mounting an attack. Heiss had no choice; he extended his other arm, slashing at Stocke's sword arm. The boy's eyes widened, and he dropped his guard as bright red blood spurted out of the wound.

 _"Stocke!"_ Aht and Raynie cried.

Heiss spun on his heel to deal with the Gutral's assault, his movements burdened by the Satyros' ice spell. The Beastkind was at least courageous enough to meet Heiss' counterattack head-on. He barely flinched as the blades of Heiss' Gauntlets dug into his skin.

Heiss raised his arm to finish the Gutral off, but was stopped by a sudden burst of flames. A wordless screamed passed through grit teeth as the fire licked his side and part of his elbow; through tears of pain, Heiss could see the Gutral rising on his feet once more.

He could not move fast enough. The Beastkind aimed a punch directly into the still burning wound, and Heiss flew backward, the world going momentarily white as his mind registered nothing but pain for a split second. Heiss summoned his strength to get to his knees, shaking, and looked at his nephew through half-open lids. "Y-You've grown strong, Stocke."

"Heiss," Stocke simply replied. He too had gotten back to his feet, his sword arm hanging limply by his side. "It's the end this time."

Heiss drew a painful breath and grinned. He closed his eyes, pulling on the Black Chronicle through their invisible bond. It came rushing to him, even halfway across the room. When he opened his eyes again, he knew he had vanished from sight. He heard a soft curse coming from Stocke.

"Bah!" he spat, rising on trembling legs. "If I can't stop you here, then I'll try my luck with Eruca! I'll kill the girl before you ever meet. That will end everything!"

Stocke's mouth was open to let out one final snarl as the Black Chronicle soared in Heiss' hands.

And with a flare of violet light, Heiss was gone to Historia.

* * *

Teo and Lippti were up on their feet when Heiss appeared before the steps of Historia.

"Heiss, stop this madness—"

"Don't do this, please—"

"When did Stocke meet Eruca?" Heiss roared, ignoring their pleas. "Tell me!"

"You know we can't. It's beyond our capabilities to—"

 _"TELL ME!"_ The very sky of Historia seemed to shake from the force of Heiss' shout.

The twins remained quiet. They were averting their gazes. Something about them made them appear… _diminished_ , somehow.

"You despicable little nuisances!" Lightning was gathering inside of Heiss' palm. The thrumming in his head grew _louder_ as the pain began to warp his perceptions. " _I_ am the true wielder of the White Chronicle, not Stocke! Tell me when he met Eruca or else...! "

The twins turned sharply to him. "You forfeited that title long ago," Lippti said. "We have nothing to say to you. Begone."

Heiss let out an inarticulate sound of rage. In the distance came a faint crash, like the sound of rock colliding against rock. Teo and Lippti exchanged a look of alarm.

"Then, I will find out myself!" Heiss shrieked. "And when it is all over on the other side, I will come to put an end to this loathsome home of yours."

He opened the Black Chronicle, searching for the node he needed. In his head a slew of conflicting memories fought among themselves. The Chronicle reflected that, showing dozens of lines alternatively disappearing and reappearing. _Stocke has created and maintained two main timelines_ , Heiss remembered. _In which did he meet with his sister?_

Heiss struggled to remember. He had always believed Stocke had abandoned him to join his friend Rosch's brigade, but his inconsistent memories seemed to say otherwise. _He has played me_ , Heiss realized. In one timeline, Stocke had betrayed Heiss' trust and returned to the army. In the other, it appeared he had instead remained true to his word and stayed in Specint.

Heiss clutched his head, grunting in pain. He had planned for Stocke to deal with Eruca had he stayed under his command, but instead the boy had _—and_ suddenly, it was as if the dam had come undone, the hidden memories finally breaking through. Heiss saw through his mind's eyes Stocke standing across his desk, brows furrowed, as he explained the details of the operation that would lead to the princess' assassination. Yes, Heiss recalled, Stocke had indeed reached Granorg and met with the princess in the other timeline.

Feverishly, he looked upon the nodes blinking in and out of existence on the pages of the Black Chronicle. After a while, he smirked.

"Heiss, you can still stop all of this," said Teo. "You can still go back."

"I can't," was Heiss' response. "You of all people should know that by now."

The twins seemed almost… _sad_.

"Go, then," said Lippti. "But know you shall fail in your endeavour. Stocke will see to that."

 _You believe in him so easily, and yet with me you never—_ "We shall see," Heiss replied. "We shall see..."

* * *

The grass of the Gran Plains was covered in dew, and the air was crisp and cool. Rain was in the air. Heiss had not even stopped to let his burns and wounds heal, so determined he was to find the damned girl before Stocke could even know of her existence. He had found through some of his shadows that she had set out of Granorg some weeks prior to the node he had taken. It was the only opportunity he would have to deal with her without having to tear his way through Castle Granorg's defenses, Heiss knew. With renewed determination, he ploughed forward, ignoring the ache in his side and his body's persistent call for more Mana, more, _more_ , _MORE_ —

When Eruca and her lady companion reached the main road leading back to the capital, Heiss was waiting for them. He wasted no time pretending; with a shrill, unearthly sound, Heiss' Gauntlets came to life, and he stalked over to the two women, claws unfurled and glistening in the morning sun.

"What on earth?" Heiss could hear his niece say. "Who are you? What do you want?" The other woman only screamed. Eruca shielded her with one arm. "Stay back, Marie!"

"Eruca," snarled Heiss. "Everything will proceed unhindered as long as I get rid of you."

"What?" Eruca could only breathe. She peered more closely at him, recognition dawning on her face. "You… could you be the one who killed my father?"

"I'll waste no words on those headed to their deaths!" Heiss lifted a claw above her face. "You'll be wiped from history, you detestable brat!"

Eruca drew a pistol from her coat, but Heiss' clawed hand came down on her, knocking it aside. The girl Marie shrieked again as Eruca grabbed at her throat, choking; her soul, as stunted and loathsome as it was, would perhaps ease some of Heiss' need. The life was about to go out of her eyes when suddenly the same strangely alien force as before forced him out of the girl's body. With a start, Heiss realized what was happening. He tried to get away from her, only to be blasted off his feet by a sudden explosion. The heat rekindled the pain in his side, and Heiss ground his teeth together to keep himself from screaming. Before he had even set eyes on Eruca's rescuer, Heiss was already aware of who it was.

"Stop right there, Heiss!" shouted Stocke. The wound to his sword arm had not yet fully closed; Heiss could see a patch of darker red growing on the boy's sleeve. Behind Stocke, his two mercenary subordinates and the Satyros girl came running.

"Heiss?!" Raynie blurted out. "What's going on? What's he doing here?"

"There's no time to explain!" Stocke yelled back. "Don't let him get anywhere! Just trust me!"

The girl and her boy companion exchanged bewildered looks. Panting, Heiss got to his feet; he could hear the clicking of Eruca's rifle as she aimed the barrel toward him.

"I-I don't get it, but," Raynie said, "b-but I'll fight with you! I swore to fight with you no matter what!"

"S-So did I," Marco added. His uncertainty seemed to have evaporated as well. Heiss spat out a curse. Here he was, a wounded man, and there were five of them against him.

"Why, Stocke?" Heiss found himself crying out. " _Why?_ Why must you always get in my way?"

"I can't ignore what you are doing," was Stocke's simple response.

Heiss' mind was starting to empty once more. Only the discordant white noise in his brain remained. "Very well. Then I'll just use the Chronicle again."

"Still running away, aren't you?" Stocke said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Where are you going now?"

Heiss' arms dropped limply at his side. "I'm not running away... not anymore. I'm going to the depths of the Royal Hall. I'll wait for you where the Ritual is performed." Heiss' statement elicited a gasp from Eruca.

"You still seek to prevent it, then?"

Heiss laughed wearily; the gesture, as simple as it was, made the pain flare up. "I won't hold back the next time we meet, Stocke. You'll feel my true strength. Do you think you'll be able to fend me off and complete the Ritual?"

"I'll do whatever it takes," Stocke replied, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Well, then," Heiss said. "Open the final chapter in that White Chronicle of yours. Let us settle the terms of history there. I'll be waiting..." In the blink of an eye, Heiss vanished into nothingness once more.

* * *

The Royal Hall had not changed in the decades since Heiss had set eyes on it.

He wished he could say that he was not filled with dread as soon as he opened the great metal gates that led to the carved space where the Ritual was usually conducted. The great violet Mana crystals draped every inch of the chamber in an unnatural glow. Unbidden, the image of Victor standing there with a knife came to Heiss. He shook his head. Today would be the last day innocent blood would be spilled on the grounds of the Royal Hall. He had to make sure of it.

From outside the great metal doors soon came a few voices. Eruca, Heiss realized, and a few of her guards. He had however arranged for them to meet with a few people of his choosing.

A scuffle seemed to ensue: the clangs of blades against blades and even the loud, hateful sound of a gun being fired. After a while, Heiss decided to see for himself the issue of the fighting.

Eruca's guards laid dead around her inert body, but so did a few soldiers bearing the uniforms of the Dias brigade. The man himself was crouched by the sitting form of Count Selvan. The latter was clutching his arm and wheezing. Selvan seemed to have been the unlucky target of Eruca's pistol.

Heiss stepped out of the shadows of the doorway. "I wondered what all the fuss out here was. Thinking small as always, Count Selvan, Colonel Dias."

"Who's there?!" Dias cried out. He drew himself to his full height, sword held high.

"Is that," Selvan began, "is that Heiss, of Alistel's Special Intelligence Division?"

"What are your plans concerning her?" Heiss said, looking down at Eruca. She appeared to be breathing still. "If you're going to kill her, you may as well do it now. If you won't, then I will."

The two men appeared mystified.

"What say you, Dias?" Selvan croaked.

"The girl can be killed at our whim," Dias said with a sneer. "You, Heiss. Why are you here? How do you even know the existence of this place?"

Heiss held back a chuckle. The only reason the two men were here in the first place was because he had some catspaw of his give them the location of the Royal Hall. "If you really want to know, come with me." And Heiss turned on his heel, heading back to the ritual chamber.

He was not surprised to find Selvan limping after him. Dias had stayed to deal with Eruca, it seemed.

"Heiss! What do you hope to do so far from home?"

Heiss shrugged. "I'm going to have my revenge on this world. And I won't let you or anyone else stop it."

"Revenge?" Selvan said, eyes squinting. "This is hardly like we believed you to be."

"This is the nexus of the power of Flux," Heiss continued, ignoring him. "Mana around the world can be controlled from this very place. Why not lend me your strength? Join me, and you'll share in the tremendous power I can command from here. I'll make you part of something great."

Selvan just stared at him blankly.

"Considering the state of that wound, I would consider all options," Heiss said, almost softly. "If your friend Dias doesn't return soon with a healer, I doubt you'll survive much longer."

Fear took hold of Selvan's features. "Something great? What do you mean? W-We're… we're cornered anyway…" He swallowed, a seemingly painful gesture for him. "What do I need to do?"

"Leave it to me," said Heiss. "Just come closer."

At the same moment, the doors burst open. Dias came hurrying, the top part of his coat stained with blood.

"Forgive me, Selvan!" shouted the High Colonel. "The girl has been taken!"

"What?!" sputtered Selvan.

"Ah, you've come," Heiss said. "What a fine time, Colonel Dias. I want you to help Count Selvan." _Stocke is here_ , was all Heiss could think about.

Dias' gaze found the barely standing form of his comrade. He looked stricken by the deterioration of Selvan's condition. "Help Selvan?" He swallowed nervously. "V-Very well."

"Heiss apparently knows a ritual that will grant us tremendous power," Selvan said. "I don't know the particulars of what he is promising, but once the ritual is over, we'll—"

"What's that?" Heiss interrupted him with a little laugh. "I think you need to pay better attention. I'm not granting you power. I'm saying you'll be part of something great. Your Mana will be drained, turning you into sand and making you part of the world." With a sweep of the arm, he summoned the Black Chronicle to his side. The great book pulsated with dark power. "You will become a part of me."

 _"What?!"_ Dias exclaimed, as his friend Selvan screamed, his eyes bulging out from the pain. Not a second later, their two bodies had burst into sand. Their souls and Mana coursed through Heiss, and he savoured the much needed warmth, marveling as the wounds on his body disappeared and the hunger receded. He was still smiling when he heard behind him the footsteps that surely belonged to Stocke and his followers.

Heiss spun on his feet to face them. This time, he noticed with a hate-filled scowl that Eruca stood amongst them.

"So you're here at last, Stocke," Heiss greeted the boy. "Or should I say Ernst?"

Eruca stepped back, her mouth opening in silent horror.

"Let's put an end to this, Heiss," Stocke replied wearily. "We shouldn't exist here."

Stocke's last words hit Heiss like a blow to the gut. "You fool! As clear as I've made it for you, you still do not understand?!"

"It's you who doesn't understand," Stocke stated. "I'm not backing down. I'll beat you and have Eruca perform the Ritual."

"Then there's nothing more to say!" roared Heiss. "I shall end everything here! I'll absorb your soul and hers as well! You'll become part of me just in time to see everything end!"

Dozens—no, hundreds of souls slumbered within Heiss. As Stocke and his companions charged forward, Heiss called upon them, forcing the raw magical energy they contained into something resembling a physical form. The shadows twisted into a shape akin to Heiss' and they stalked off to find their prey. Heiss himself moved toward Stocke. _With the Etherion gone, I would be able to put an end to this farce once and for all._ He only needed to neutralize his nephew _—kill_ , Heiss corrected himself, _kill_. _Why can't you recognize that you'll have to_ kill _the boy?_

The steel of Historica clashed against the metallic plate hidden under Heiss' sleeve. He took a swipe at the boy with his other Gauntlet, the claws leaving deep marks on Stocke's buckler. Stocke pushed with all his strength to break Heiss' hold, then rolled out to the side when he found he couldn't make Heiss move.

Before Stocke could mount another attack, Heiss called for the Black Chronicle's powers. The great book sent rays of violet light across the chamber as it drew the Mana from the bodies of Stocke and his companions. Heiss savoured the taste of life as they writhed on their spots, crying out from pain. The boy healer dropped motionless to the ground, to his companion Raynie's great distress, while the Gutral was mercilessly gutted by the two of Heiss' ghostly servants. Rosch was the first to stand, and he rushed to shield the Satyros girl from the three shadows who were creeping toward her.

Historica came lunging at him once more. Heiss parried the blow easily—Stocke seemed to be weak still from his prior spell—and he struck at the boy from below. The claws ripped through cloth and skin, and Stocke stumbled backward, feebly raising his shield over his head. Heiss loomed over him, Gauntlets dripping with blood.

There was the sound of a gunshot and paper ripping. Heiss clutched to his chest as if the bullet had torn through him. Eruca's rifle was not aimed at him, however; it was pointing somewhere to his left, where there hovered—

An inhuman sound tore through Heiss' mouth as he leaped toward the girl, Black Chronicle in tow. In his path jumped a crimson-clad figure. Heiss came at him with both claws and dark energy, but the boy swiftly evaded both. His true target was elsewhere.

Once more, Heiss sensed the cold bite of steel when Historica pierced at the Chronicle. The tome flew away, scattering dark paper everywhere, and took refuge by its master's side. Heiss snarled at Stocke like a wounded animal, and the boy charged forward, dogged by two or three of Heiss' shadows. They clawed at him, trying to tear him to bloody bits, but Stocke never faltered in his run. Heiss himself lunged at him with the energy of despair.

Another bolt of pain ripped through Heiss like lightning. The girl Raynie had risen as well. Half of her face was covered with blood coming from a head wound. Beneath her, pinned by the blade of her spear, was the Black Chronicle. Heiss called it to his side, tearing half of it to shreds. He screamed and screamed in agony.

 _"No!"_ Heiss howled, mad with the pain. "Why can't I win? I should be much more experienced at wielding the Chronicle than you!"

"You are," Stocke said, not without some difficulty. Behind him, every one of Heiss' shadows had dissipated. Raynie crawled back to her friend Marco, and cradled his head as he looked at Heiss with heavy lids, while the child Satyros hurried to the unconscious Gutral, her hands already shining green with healing magic. "This isn't the extent of your power." Stocke sighed. "But the hesitation inside you is holding you back."

"Hesitation?" Heiss managed weakly. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You still haven't discarded the possibility that I may have a change of heart, Heiss. We both know I'm in the same position as you. You still cling to hopes that I'll understand you."

Heiss stared at Stocke in blank shock for a long moment. Eventually, a weary laugh escaped his lips. His hands closed around the mangled remains of the Black Chronicle. "I cannot believe it… it took you spelling it out for me to realize it. It's true… some part of me still can't completely close its heart to you..."

Heiss scrutinized the face of the young man standing in front of him, the young man who looked so much like Ernst yet wasn't him. He swallowed down a sob as the realisation crept up on him. _You killed Ernst_ , the twins had told him, but he hadn't listened. _I killed Ernst and what did I get in return?_ The thrumming in his head was deafening. Heiss' tired chuckle grew in intensity.

Stocke only nodded. "Let's stop this, Heiss."

Heiss only shook his head; he couldn't stop laughing. Everything hurt even worse than before. Rivulets of blood escaped down his Gauntlets, the red lines mirroring the pale scars that ran along the flesh underneath the metal. He remembered where and when he had gained these scars. He remembered the cries and screams of the shades of his fellows Sacrifices as that _thing_ had devoured them whole while he hung for dear life on that platform—oh, he remembered how it had threatened to engulf him as well that day. He remembered the monster that was hidden in the depths of Historia. He laughed even louder.

The ground began to shake. Out of the corner of his eyes, Heiss could spy a strange sight—a hole was opening into thin air, a hole showing a very different, yet strangely familiar, location…

"Heiss!" Stocke cried out. "What are you doing?!"

"I cannot allow this!" The hoarse voice that was coming out of Heiss' mouth seemed to belong to someone else, let alone something human. "I must commune with the other Sacrifices once more... I must hear their cries of despair and remind myself of their anger and hatred!"

More and more tears ripped the fabric of the world apart. Rosch loudly swore, while the Satyros girl clung to Eruca, who herself seemed to need the girl's presence as much to stand on her feet. Someone was muttering a quick prayer—the boy Marco, most likely. Raynie quickly draped him with her body when the ground gave away under them—replaced by the grey stone floor that Heiss knew so well.

"Stop!" Stocke yelled to Heiss. "Don't pull anything stupid like that!"

"Let's have a change of scenery, Stocke!" Heiss' voice boomed across the now larger space. "We'll go to where the emotions of every Sacrifice can be felt... To Historia!"

And felt their emotions, did he. The imprints of their memories filled him, and thousands of images and feelings flashed through his mind. Centuries' worth of lives not truly lived. They had died old, yet so little of what they did, what they learned, what they hoped for, had truly left a mark on the world. No history book wrote of their deeds, no one save a few within those in the know had wept for their losses. The shades raged alongside him, their wrath and anguish feeding him as much as the hundreds of souls he had devoured as a bearer of the Black Chronicle. And soon, the one Heiss had been waiting for finally came.

This time, Heiss was not afraid.

He welcomed the abomination with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another chapter plus the epilogue and we're finished! Thanks a lot for sticking with me so far! (especially you, Raul-loving beta you didn't even get a cameo for your trouble ^^')


	26. Chapter 24 - The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Since from now on I'll be extensively using/paraphrasing some of the game's script, I feel another disclaimer is in order: everything RH related belongs to Atlus. Some of the quotes here aren't mine either, they were written by the original Japanese scenarist/the English localization team.

Somewhere, a man was dreaming.

Or at least, he believed it to be dream. Possibly, it was a nightmare. He saw, but he was aware that he had no eyes. He heard, but he was aware that he had no ears. He thought he was a _he_ , but truly, this could be a lie as well. He was rock and mortar and twisted steel brought to life; his blood was the fire of anger and despair. He was the screams of a hundred human beings whose voices had been stolen and given a conscious, _monstrous_ form.

He was only vaguely aware that he had been made of flesh and bones and hair and teeth before. The others within him had been alive as well, once. Now they only gave silent shrieks at the sight of the seven who stood against him. The blood trickling down their faces, the light that still lit up their eyes, the gasps and shouts that escaped their mouths—all signs of life that the beings trapped inside the stone coveted for themselves. He envied them as well.

 _Crush them, hack them to pieces_ , the multiple consciousnesses whispered to him. Why were these interlopers alive while they had all died, forgotten and unmourned by all? _Kill them, devour them_. _Make them pay_.

He had little to no control on what was happening outside the strange structure that was now his body. He seemed to be able to mold his world—Historia, he remembered it was called—to his will. The red-clad man and his followers had to leap out of the way and scramble from stair to stair as the floor crumbled under their feet, as pieces of stone and steel came speeding toward them. The stars of Historia were expiring. Soon, the only light that fell on the seven and the distorted architecture of the ancient dimension came from the spells and bursts of dark energy that danced across the grey slate.

The strength of the seven was failing. Knives and spears were ineffective against his rock skin. Only the sword with the blade as dark as onyx could ever hope to harm it. Green light sparkled in its wake; the man inside the abomination felt something stirring at the sight of it. The memory was weak, and it disappeared back to the darkness of unconsciousness at once. He willed it so. He was only dreaming, after all.

Still, its wielder's face was familiar. It pained him to see him, but he did not—could not—know why. It did not matter. The end was coming; every voice within him screamed for him to bring it about. The man in the dream only obeyed them.

Little by little, the final parts of his individuality were eroding away. Deeper and deeper he went. Soon, he would even forget that he was a _he_. He had already forgotten he had a name, once.

 _That was good_ , a voice said. It took him some time to recognise it as his own. _Perhaps if I stop existing it will stop hurting._

But it didn't stop hurting. Once in a while, a sharp current would send cracks alongside his stone skin. Their magic—and the black blade—hurt him still. The rage rose in him like a storm. Dark bolts of violet lightning came down on them. The bodies of those who had been unlucky enough to be in its path twisted in pain. A young woman with blond curls let out an earsplitting scream. A tall figure covered in fur fell to his knees, while a smaller form—a child, it seemed—hurried to him. The man with the familiar face jumped to a nearby platform, shouting. His words didn't mean anything to the creature of stone facing him, but his voice was haunting to the flesh heart still beating inside of it.

For a brief moment, he was aware that he was not solely a mind, but also a body. The realization flickered out of existence as soon as it was born. Shadows invaded his mind. The voice calling out to him was getting fainter and fainter. Soon, the only sounds that reverberated through his stone body were screams. He delved deeper into the dream, transported by the noises of violence. Finally, he would sleep.

It was then that a light as bright as sunshine broke through the stone armour, forcing him away from his slumber. He shuddered with a scream. The pain and the white heat infiltrated every fissure creeping alongside the stairs that writhed around his body. The metal shrieked, the mortar disintegrated into nothingness. His core was falling and falling, and a warm and dark liquid splattered on the grey stone; blood, he realized. _His_ blood. There had been flesh and bones under the stone monstrosity. A man with a name and a history.

_I'm alive…_

It was the last thought he had before the light gave way to a veil of shadows.

* * *

"Heiss... It really ends here..."

Heiss heard his nephew's voice before he came back to his other senses. Where was he? He had no idea. He could not feel the trappings of his body. His spirit seemed to wander aimlessly amid the emptiness of Historia, now that it was separated from the… the _thing_ that had been him only moments prior. Yet, even with no ears he could still hear Stocke.

"This world," Heiss' disembodied voice said, "this world isn't worth saving…"

"Heiss," he could hear Eruca say, "I pity you."

Once, such words would have sent him into a rage. Now, he only accepted them numbly.

"Ernst... _Ernst_ … why can't you understand?" His voice sounded so pitiful, so childish.

"I understand perfectly," Stocke answered. "You and I had the same lot in life, more or less."

"Then… why…?"

"Because I lived as Stocke and not Ernst."

Had he still possessed his body, Heiss' breathing would have stopped. "What?"

"You named me Stocke and gave me Stocke's life," the young man said. "And in that life, I met people whom I valued over myself." There was a pause, and then: "But you... You never met anyone you could place above you. No friends that you'd throw your life away to protect..."

"Stocke..."

"I used the Chronicle and saw hope for the future. But you used it to see the ugliness of the past. That's… that's what divided us."

Heiss' vision was gradually returning. Through a blur he could see the boy's red figure standing among his comrades. Then, everything appeared to shake. Historia appeared unstable; the entire dimension must have seen Stocke and his friends as interlopers who should have never set foot into its hallowed confines.

"Stocke!" cried out Eruca. "We need to hurry out of here!"

"Yes," Stocke said decisively.

It was too much for Heiss. "No! You can't go! Don't go!" Heiss was aware that his pleas were in vain. Stocke's comrades would soon make their escape, and Heiss knew he would follow them.

"The things you did were clearly wrong," Stocke still addressed one final farewell to Heiss. "But there was still something pure in your reasoning. You wanted to save me from my fate as a Sacrifice. And I… I won't ever forget that."

 _"No!"_ Heiss' shout resounded through every corner of Historia. "You can't leave me here, Stocke! You can't!"

"Even if your name is lost to history, we'll honor the desires that drove you." A green light enveloped Stocke's form. "...goodbye, Heiss."

The latter screamed Stocke's name until the last remnants of his consciousness gave way to oblivion.

* * *

One by one, Stocke and his companions reappeared in front of the doorway leading to the ceremonial chamber.

"We, we made it back?" came Rosch's incredulous voice.

None answered him. Gafka's legs were shaking from pain and fatigue. Raynie seemed on the verge of collapsing as well. Marco's eyes swept across their little group, assessing their injuries.

"Where's the queen?" he said, frowning.

"Over there!" Aht cried, and she pointed to where Stocke was hurrying.

 _"What?!"_ Raynie's voice nearly broke in her throat.

"Stocke!" Eruca screamed over the sounds of their footsteps. "There's no need for you to sacrifice yourself! I'll... I'll perform the Ritual by my own power!"

"You can't!" Stocke replied, shouting. "Get back here, Eruca!"

Eruca's body began to glow as her feet left the ground. Her expression was hard to see in the glare, but Stocke quickly realized she was in pain. With one last flash of white, the light ceased to be, and Eruca collapsed on the ground. Her brother ran up to her, cupping her tired face with all the tenderness he could muster.

"No," whispered Gafka. "It's true, then. The Ritual cannot be performed alone."

Aht tried to reach Stocke's side, but Marco stopped her. "Stocke!" she sobbed.

"Eruca," Stocke said to his sister, "Eruca, listen to me. I know it may be painful for you, but you need to hear this. You must know that this is the best thing you can do right now to fulfill your duty as queen."

"Ernst, I-I can't…" Eyes filled with tears, she murmured so only he could hear. "I already lost you once. I can't… I can't bear to do so another time…"

"You can and you will," Stocke said. "The Caster must enshrine the Sacrifice's loss in their heart, not look away from the past." Eruca leaned into her brother's arms, and he hugged her tighter; they held each other for several long seconds. "Am I wrong?"

Eruca shuddered with silent sobs.

"I must play my part," Stocke finished. "And you need to play yours. All right, Eruca?"

The young queen dipped her head in assent. Without another word, she and her brother rose to their feet.

"Stocke!" Rosch declared. "You shouldn't be risking your life alone! I'm coming with you!"

"S-So am I!" Marco's words echoed Rosch's sentiment.

Raynie moved to grab Stocke's hand. "Me three! What good is saving the world if you're not in it?"

Stocke smiled sadly at her. He leaned forward to press a kiss down her hair. Raynie's face went slack, her eyes growing wide. She was so numb she barely reacted when Stocke let go of her hand. He mouthed a silent 'I'm sorry' to her that went unnoticed by the others.

"Thank you, everyone," he said after a strained silence. "I feel better knowing you think so. I can see it now... a future world where everyone I care about is alive."

"We want the same thing!" Rosch shouted, having finally found his voice. "Use my soul for the Ritual too!"

"Don't be silly, Rosch," replied Stocke. "The Ritual won't work unless the Sacrifice's soul is used. And I am—Ernst is already dead. This soul belongs to Eruca. It's time I returned it to her."

Raynie snapped out of her torpor as well. "But, but that'd mean—!"

"This soul will become a tool used to wield the power of Flux. It'll be for the good of the continent. I'll seem to be gone, but I'll live on everywhere in the land. My journey will go on; it'll be just like the days I traveled with all of you."

"Stocke," Raynie said, "but, but you promised…" A very strange expression settled on her face, then, almost as if she were remembering something she had once forgotten. For a split second, Stocke's features displayed a flicker of pure despair; his expression then went back to its usual peacefulness.

"I could never have come this far alone," he said, first turning to Raynie, then seeking the eyes of all the others. "If I hadn't met all of you, I'd have abandoned my duty, the way Heiss did. It's thanks to all of you that I didn't despair over the past, that I had hope for the future. Thank you."

"Red One," Gafka addressed him, "Stocke. So you truly accept this as your fate?"

Stocke heard a strangled sob coming from Aht. She had buried her face in Marco's coat. The young man's dark eyes were watery as well.

"S-Stocke, I won't forget you," Marco said, "We'll always be waiting for you to return."

Tears glistened on Raynie's cheeks. She looked as if she wanted to run and seize Stocke in her arms, but couldn't. "Me too... I'll wait! I mean, we're, we're friends, r-right?" The smile Stocke directed at her made Raynie incapable of saying more. Rosch held the young woman so she wouldn't fall.

"You were the best friends I could have hoped for," Stocke managed in a strained voice.

"Stocke!" Rosch called out, "We'll meet again! Someday, somewhere! I swear it!"

Aht took one, two unsteady steps toward Stocke. "I'll be waiting too, Stocke! No matter how long... I'll wait forever and ever!"

Stocke squeezed his eyes shut to will the tears away, before directing one final smile to his friends. Slowly, he held out one hand toward Eruca; she gently clasped it. Stocke gave her the Etherion. In an unsteady motion, Eruca fastened it around her neck.

"Eruca. The Ritual." The White Chronicle pulsated softly in Stocke's hands.

Eruca dried her eyes with her other hand. "Yes. The Ritual."

The two siblings were surrounded by light. When it was gone, Stocke had disappeared, and the White Chronicle hit the ground with a dull _thud_.

* * *

Heiss had all the reasons in the world to be dead.

His body still existed, apparently. Unfortunately for him, his spirit had found its way back to it, regardless of its pitiful state. The Gauntlets that had been attached to his arms now lay scattered in useless bits of metal and wire. The prosthesis had been forcefully torn off when that _thing_ had fused itself with his body; there were gaping wounds where the devices had once been connected to his arms. There was this raw, searing pain in his left side. One quick look showed him a patchwork of raw, red skin intermingled with parts that were charred black. One of his arms was bent at an odd angle. When he tried to move it, it twanged and shook before going limp. And a gash tore open his brow, oozing blood with every pump of his heart. The blood irritatingly trickled down to his eyes, but Heiss could not find the energy to lift a hand to wipe it. For the first time in his life, he just wanted everything to end.

But his old broken and battered body somehow clung to life stubbornly. Heiss surmised that the enormous quantity of Mana he had amassed in his long life was the only thing that kept him from the blissful oblivion of death. Even now he could feel the magical energy tirelessly working to mend the shattered bones, to seal the gashes, to heal the bruises and cuts. He chuckled dryly at the absurdity of the situation, ignoring the pain flaring up in his side. Isla (remembering her name startled him; how strange that he had not forgotten her, even after all these years?) would have been appalled at this sight.

Heiss waited. His head felt surprisingly clear. More than it had been in the last few years, even. Perhaps he could find a way to escape from this place. He could still feel the tenuous bond that linked him to the remains of the Black Chronicle, after all. Or perhaps he could just contemplate the star-studded void of Historia as his body and the Mana slaved away trying to keep his mangled soul (no, not his soul, it had never been his, _never_ ) from fleeing its now broken prison. At least, the ringing and the hundreds of maddening whispers had stopped. The quiet left him peaceful and sated.

Heiss let out another pained laugh. Quite possibly the Heinrich of so long ago would have shed a few tears at the sight of him. Heinrich who, although lonely, had never been truly unhappy. Heinrich who, although cynical, had still wanted to believe something could be done to fix this world. Heinrich who, although mistrustful of his fellow men, had wanted nothing more but to live peacefully with a pair of rambunctious children at his side.

Heinrich, whose life he had so idiotically discarded.

Heiss could not help but scowl. In the end, his existence had been as senseless and desolate as the wastelands that threatened to engulf everything.

A delicate light flared next to him, and he heard the soft flutter of a robe against the ground. Heiss steeled his gaze, ready for another self-righteous scolding from the twins.

Tiny, pale hands hovered above his brow, and a green glow shone brightly. A breath of relief inadvertently escaped Heiss' mouth as the wound on his forehead sealed itself. He looked at the one who had healed him with a mixture of puzzlement and shame.

"Lippti, why are you doing this?" Heiss groaned, wincing at the pain brought by each word.

"Perhaps we should both hate you for the dreadful things you have done," Lippti said, "but it doesn't change the fact that we've known you for more than half your life." After a short silence, she added, "Heinrich." The sound of his true name was almost foreign to his ears.

"Forty years to be exact," Teo continued. He paused, glancing down at Heiss with a grave expression. "You have made terrible mistakes—mistakes that can never be forgiven. You have destroyed the lives of countless innocent people. You have stood aside while the world burned and even worked to ensure it could never recover from these wounds."

Heiss summoned a last bit of rage to scowl at the boy-shaped thing. "It deserved it. It did. It _did_." Even to his own ears the words sounded weak.

"But you would have never managed to accomplish your goal," Teo said.

Heiss' wrath turned inward. _Because I wasn't powerful enough. I was weak, so very weak._

"No, Heinrich," Lippti said, almost as if she could read his mind. "Stocke was right. You failed because there was something you couldn't bring yourself to do. You couldn't let him go."

Heiss flared his teeth in disgust. "Because I always held the hope he'd change his mind. Because I always believed he'd eventually come to my side. That's what he said."

"He was wrong," Teo said.

"He misunderstood why you fought to save his life." Lippti's eyes pinned Heiss into place. "As did you."

"W-What?" Heiss hissed. "I know why I did this. How could I not? It's because he's the same—it's because he's the same as _me_."

"We have tried to make you realize for forty years now," continued Teo. "Yet, you never did. It was very peculiar."

"Remember," said Lippti, "all those years ago, what sent you on this journey? Which event was the spark that propelled your life forward? Why the Chronicle recognized you as a possible candidate for the Ritual?"

A great weight settled in Heiss' stomach as the gears in his mind started to grind backward.

"...because he died. Because Ernst died." Perhaps the sounds and the images of those memories had been eroded with time, but the feelings they evoked were as vivid to him now as they had been back then. He'd learned to live with that particular brand of despair for forty years now.

"On that day, you seized the fabric of History to alter it to your whims," Lippti declared.

Heiss let out a laugh at her words. "I have always thought it was a rather powerful ability to bestow on some lowly human. Why are you so surprised it turned out that way? Am I the only one who realized how idiotic an idea it was?"

"You were not the only one," Lippti stated.

"But every Sacrifice came around in the end," her brother said. "Because the system is rigged against you."

"Hah!" spat Heiss. "You admit it!"

"Yes," replied Teo. "They are things your kind will never accept. A child's death amongst them. By giving you the possibility to change the course of the world to keep those moments from existing, the Chronicle makes you sink deeper into your role as a Sacrifice. Those who came before you found it an acceptable bargain."

Heiss mulled over Teo's statement, the embers of his fury slowly turning to cold ashes.

"Does that mean Ernst was always fated to die?" The previous flurry of emotions caused by the twins' appearance had died down. Perhaps Teo's confession should have sent him into the deepest of rages, but Heiss found he could muster neither anger, nor hate. He just stared at the twins with a gaze void of any emotion. "Had I not possessed the White Chronicle back then—" Heiss swallowed nervously "—on that day forty years ago, Ernst would have died, wouldn't he? That was the original course of History?"

The moment he waited for their confirmation was excruciating, each second a needle prickling his skin.

"Yes, it is true," Lippti said.

"Every Sacrifice went this route. Even your nephew. He was so determined to keep his friends alive." To Heiss' surprise, Teo sounded sad, and even a bit regretful.

"The world is an abstract concept for an average human mind," Lippti explained. "A few times were born in this world some extraordinary men and women. They possessed a rare ability, one that allowed them to feel a love borne out of absolute selflessness, a love that was completely detached from their being. Such instances were wondrous to behold. But this is not what we count on, most of the time. Nearly all of your kind love the world through the smile of a friend, or the embrace of a mother, or the touch of a lover." Her gaze became soft. "Or the innocent eyes of a child looking at his parent."

Heiss escaped her scrutiny, suddenly filled with shame. "Yet, it failed with me."

Teo turned his head, apparently spotting something in the distance. "I would not be so sure of that," the boy murmured. Heiss opened his mouth in confusion, but the twins, after giving him a final, meaningful look, disappeared in a flash of light. Heiss stared at the spot where they had stood seconds prior, perplexed by Teo's parting words.

The sound of footsteps finally took Heiss out of his reverie, and with great effort he directed his gaze toward the person who had arrived in Historia. As he had expected, it was a tall youth wearing red. A strange mixture of bitterness and fear rose from within him at the sight of his nephew. Stocke extended a gloved hand, and Heiss reluctantly took it. He wobbled back on his feet, evading the young man's stare all the while.

"Historia," Stocke eventually said in a forlorn, but content voice. "This is the last time I'll see it." There was a soft guilelessness to his features, as if he clearly just realized all the implications of what he was about to do. The things he would never see, never hear, never touch, never _feel_ —

Heiss tightened his jaw, infuriated by the boy's stupidity. "You fool. Why did you think I gave you the power to fight your fate with the White Chronicle?" He turned his face away, trying to mask his distress. "You greatly disappoint me."

The corners of Stocke's mouth formed an ever slight smile. "Still, some irony, eh? It was you who led me down this path, after all."

This time, there was no denying the growing sense of desperation and horror that swept over Heiss. His breath hitched in his throat. Although now Ernst was a grown man, the thought of him dying was still as sickening as it had been decades earlier.

"No child knows how dear he is are to his parents," Heiss muttered, his voice strangling at the last word. Stocke stared at him, stone-faced as ever. Heiss sighed, recalling the strange sense of remorse that had sprung up in his heart while he had talked with Teo and Lippti.

"But no," Heiss continued, "it's not my place to say that. I took your past and your real father away from you. Even so..." He trailed off, uncertain of how to express his feelings.

The two of them stood in silence for a few seconds. Heiss glanced up and down at his nephew; the young man seemed a little older than before, a little wiser, too. He had been only sixteen when he had been killed. _And I had been only twenty_ , Heiss mused. The differences between the two young men they had been were striking; Ernst, tall and fair, with his bright blue-green eyes and mischievous little half-smirks; and Heinrich, the runt of the litter, all messy hair and twitchy hands, his glasses always slipping down the length of his nose. Heiss wondered if they would have gotten along.

Heiss eventually let out a nervous laugh.

"This brings back memories," he said. "Really, you might not know it, but you haven't changed a bit. You're still my stubborn little Ernst."

The young man shrugged. "I don't mean to be," he mumbled, scratching the back of his head, looking suddenly self-conscious. "All I'm doing is... being myself. Just doing whatever I can do best. Nothing has changed since my Specint days."

The old man's smile grew wistful. "Indeed. You are right on this one, my boy. I suppose I somehow always knew this would happen someday," Heiss went on. "Little Ernst, stubborn as he was, he... well, _you've_ always been the kind of person who would be ready to sacrifice everything if it meant saving a life in the end."

Stocke stayed mum, possibly contemplating his uncle's admission. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked at Heiss.

"Whatever you may think of me," Stocke said, clearly weighing his words, "I want to thank you, Heiss."

This, Heiss had not expected. He was sure the boy had all the reasons in the world to hate him. Why would he be grateful to him?

The young man took a deep breath before speaking again: "It was because you took me to Alistel that I met Rosch in the army. You're the reason why I met Raynie and Marco in Specint, too," Stocke smiled tenderly before adding, "And it was on missions you gave me that I came to know Aht and the others. It's all because you gave me my life as Stocke."

Heiss gaped at his nephew, sensing something clenching painfully inside his chest.

The young man continued quietly, "This world that I've come to believe is worth saving, worth giving my life for..."

Stocke paused, now directing his smile at his uncle.

"It's the world you gave me, Heiss. Thank you."

Heiss could feel his hands starting to shake. He repressed a sob, his breathing now shallow and uneven. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

"Ernst..." was all he managed to say before his voice broke again. He forced his gaze downward, his pride forbidding him to let the boy see his watery eyes.

Fortunately, Teo and Lippti chose this moment to appear in a flash of light. Heiss was dimly aware that Lippti had begun to talk, but he was so focused on the turmoil Stocke's words had caused within him that he did not even care what she had to say.

The world was not worth it—it had been the thought that had driven him forward for almost two decades—and yet, here was this young man who had told him the opposite with serene confidence, here was this young soul who was ready to give everything he had because he loved so much and who, although he was not always conscious of this fact, was also very much loved in return—

The realization made Heiss inhale sharply. He had killed Ernst. He had, the twins had been right.

_I killed him. I killed my dear, sweet boy..._

But the young man before him— _Stocke_ —was still very much alive...

Heiss' eyes were now dry. With a distracted ear, he listened as his nephew spoke with the twins. Stocke's voice was imbued with a childlike quality, as though he wanted naively to be reassured his existence had been worth it after all. All of a sudden, he looked less like a confident soldier marching to his death and more like the fearful young man he really was.

"Is it time already?" he asked. "There's nothing more to do? I've bounced through history so much that I'm not sure anymore how long I've been fighting..."

"A human's life is brief. Its span is hardly noticeable when placed next to all of history," Lippti mused in response. "The moment we share is nothing more than a blink in history's eye. Yet that long history is born of moments like these. This is the crucible of the future."

Her words seemed to comfort him. "I see what you mean. Thinking about it like that... my life wasn't so bad after all."

_...My dear brother..._

A gentle female voice disturbed the peace of Historia. With a dull pang, Heiss recognized it as Eruca's.

"The Caster's voice has reached us," Teo announced. "The Ritual will now begin."

Stocke stood a little straighter, the last remains of fear deserting his face. "I guess this is where we say goodbye," he said, offering an uncertain grin to Lippti and Teo.

Slowly closing his eyes, Stocke took a tentative step forward, only to stop abruptly as something tugged on his scarf.

_"No..."_

The word was out of Heiss' mouth before he could hold some semblance of control on it. Stocke turned to Heiss, his expression mirroring his uncle's own, the older man looking almost as stupefied as his nephew of his action. After a few stunned seconds, Heiss' hand clasped Stocke's scarf, and his gaze turned to steel.

"Not yet," he cried out, "I can't let the Ritual begin. Not yet!"

"Heiss?" Stocke said, his hand dropping on the hilt of his sword. "You can't possibly fight in that condition! Give it up!"

"No! I won't give it up!" Heiss shouted, his voice thick with emotion. "Not this... not ever!"

Heiss finally let go of Stocke's scarf, his red-rimmed eyes meeting his nephew's blue-green ones. His gaze softened, and he raised his hands over his head, a pale glow swiftly surrounding him as, for the first time in several decades, Heiss began to draw on the White Chronicle's powers.

"That light!" Stocke called out.

Heiss ignored his nephew's startled outcry, instead focusing his attention on Lippti and Teo. "Here, dogs of the Chronicles," he snarled, his voice booming in the vast emptiness of Historia, "if the world needs to feast on a soul, let it be mine!"

Teo remained impassive. "Stop this, Heiss. Your soul has not been prepared as a Sacrifice. A Sacrifice that is not spiritually awakened won't be able to save the world."

A bark of laughter escaped Heiss' mouth, and a large, ferocious grin emerged on his features. "To hell with your spiritual awakenings! I know what I want!" And then he smiled, this time more gently, at Stocke, who appeared utterly at a loss for words. "I just want to see it... the future you'd give yourself to create, Ernst, my dear boy."

As soon as he had finished his sentence, Heiss let out a grunt and clutched his side as a burst of pain suddenly flared up. He raised his other hand to his face and realized with a surprising lack of fear that it was slowly starting to disappear.

"Heiss!" Stocke cried out, raising his arm to reach for his uncle.

"He is the only hope I have left in the world..." Heiss whispered, oblivious to his nephew's outstretched hand, his eyes staring into the distance. "If I can't protect that hope, then what good is my life...?"

The green glow became brighter. Heiss' feet gave up on him and he fell, his eyes still lost in the void. "I... see... So this… is the future… you wish for... it's... not bad..."

And with a peaceful expression, he sensed his breathing slowly coming to a stop. As his vision began to fade, Heiss lost himself to the gentle embrace of the green-white glow.

* * *

The ground was hard and cold, and his head hurt so much it almost felt like it had been split in two. Groaning, Stocke went to his feet, his eyes slowly coming into focus.

"Heiss," Stocke simply said as he noticed the old man's absence. He could not utter any other word. The twins noted his obvious distress, and finally Lippti spoke up in an attempt to offer him comfort.

"A Sacrifice's spiritual awakening stems from its determination to risk its life for someone," she said as Stocke stared ahead, speechless in his shock. "He found that awakening in seeing your life. He became the foundation of the future for your sake."

Teo nodded. His orange gaze was clear and proud. "The world will continue to turn for now. The world you hoped to realize… the world Heiss wanted. You reversed his iron will and saved the lives of everybody on the continent."

"Yet, the fact remains that your soul is a borrowed one, Stocke," Lippti reminded him. "If you wish, you could stay here with us."

Stocke snorted. "Thanks, but I'd rather not."

Teo seemed on the brink of laughter at his response. "So, you'll be going, then?"

There was no hesitation on Stocke's part.

"Yes," said the bearer of the White Chronicle. "There are a lot of people waiting for me. Rosch and Sonja still need my help. They're both so stubborn that who knows what would happen if I wasn't there to mediate? Beyond that, they'd hold a hell of a grudge if I wasn't present for the wedding."

The twins did smile at this.

"Then there's Marco, who's clumsier than he lets on. He's a friend, and I should be there for him too. And Gafka too, I promised to spar with him. After he finally remembered my name, I figure I owe it to him to return the favour."

Stocke's expression then grew thoughtful.

"Alistel has been devastated. I suppose we don't have to worry about General Raul. He and Field Marshal Viola will get the people back on their feet eventually. But having someone to look after them and give them a helping hand would make it go smoother. And there's a lot to discuss with the people of Celestia and Forgia. Humans and Beastkind absolutely can coexist peacefully. The old Ernst knew that. And I'll still need Aht's help. Or should I say, she'll need mine?"

He sighed, suddenly looking quite distressed. "Not to mention, I've put Eruca through so much. Going forward, I want to make sure I'm around to support her." His sorrow finally gave way to joy. "And, of course, Raynie's waiting for me."

The twins considered his words.

"The human world is full of pain and suffering—" Teo began.

"—but it is also a wondrous place. You know that very well, don't you, Stocke?" Lippti completed.

Stocke shrugged. "You give me too much credit. I need them as much as they need me." He briefly paused, giving the children a nod. "You have my thanks, too."

Teo shook his head. "No, Stocke. In light of what you have done for us, it's we who should be thanking you." He sounded kinder than usual when he added: "I believe the time has come for us to say farewell."

"You who volunteered himself as a Sacrifice and guided the soul of the true Sacrifice," a solemn Lippti said, "we are forever in your debt."

"We shall engrave your name in Historia in commemoration," the two children proclaimed in unison. "Please, let us know the name of the soul to be remembered."

The young man clad in red directed his characteristic half-smile at the twins.

"My name is Stocke," he said, his blue-green eyes shining brightly, "I'm just a man who wants to see his friends again."

And, turning on his heel, Stocke ran as the light cast by the White Chronicle enveloped him, eager to meet with the people with whom he wanted to build a brighter future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeeesh, when I first began to write this I wanted to do like a two or a four-shot. And then it turned into that monster...I hope I didn't woobiefy Heiss too much, he is kind of an asshole, really. I just thought he was a great foil to Stocke and imagined he maybe went through his own bad endings just like our intrepid hero did, but instead of making him stronger, it slowly drove him insane. And yandere for his nephew. Poor, poor Stocke.
> 
> Thanks for coming this far with me. Only one little update remains, then it's over (!). And I'm forever grateful for my beta for their kind words and help throughout this monstrosity, erm, story.


	27. Epilogue II - Sight of the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Radiant Historia belongs to Atlus.

The two young women were so different from each other no one would have ever believed them to be related.

Ophelia's cousin stood tall and proud, muscled arms laid bare. The princess herself was short and slight, much like her mother. She had inherited most of her features from her, although she had red-blonde hair rather than the characteristic golden curls of the queen of Granorg. Artemisia, for her part, had little of her father, Ophelia's uncle, save for the shape of her eyes and her height.

Artemisia grinned as she drew her twin swords in a stance that easily gave away who had taught her. Ophelia responded by tightening her grip on her spear. Artemisia was young, but she had squired for the Valkyrie. She could easily send men twice her age flat on the ground.

The rest of Ophelia's personal guard were watching them intently. Forgetting for an instant how mindful she was of their stares, Ophelia thrust forward with her spear. Artemisia laughed and easily danced away. Ophelia scowled; how could someone as tall and muscular as her cousin be so graceful? _Especially since she's so graceless in everything else..._

A second later, the blunted tip of one of Artemisia's swords was at Ophelia's throat.

"I win again, _Highness_ ," Ophelia's cousin said. Her grey eyes brimmed with amusement.

"That's good, I'd say," the princess replied evenly. "Considering you're meant to protect my life from now on."

Artemisia's grin grew bigger. She had been knighted by Ophelia's mother only a month prior, and had joined the royal guard a week afterwards. Ophelia still remembered how uncharacteristically serious her cousin had been as she had recited her oath pledging to serve and protect the royal family—of which she was secretly a member, although this was not common knowledge. Ophelia's uncle had worked hard to keep his children away from the life of court and intrigue of a Granorgite royal.

Ophelia herself would have given anything to live as her three cousins did, but she'd accepted her lot in life long ago. She had been born a princess of Granorg, and that was that. There was nothing else she could do.

The two of them returned to their respective positions, bowing to each other before dropping into their battle stances once more. There had been something cocky in Artemisia's salute. Some of the other guardsmen seemed to have noticed, and Ophelia could see them bristling. She ignored them. Ophelia knew her cousin meant to help. _She wants to push me to my limits. She wants me to win for once._

Ophelia focused on her breathing. She still had a few cards up her sleeves she could use to wipe Sia's confident grin off her face—including a little trick her mother had taught her some years past.

Ophelia spied Artemisia covertly moving to her left. When the young knight leaped forward, her blades slashed through empty air. Ophelia had disappeared from sight.

The guards yelled in shock as Artemisia stopped in her tracks, body tense with alarm. Ophelia reappeared behind her, directing with a swipe of the arm an ice spell under her cousin's feet. Artemisia spun on her heel only to end up on her back, this time with the pointy end of Ophelia's lance on her throat.

"H-How did you do that?" Artemisia said, panting. There was a note of fear in her voice. From the corner of her eyes, Ophelia saw the other guardsmen hesitating on their spots. They had been afraid when she had vanished, she realized.

"Just a little spell my mother taught me," said Ophelia. She extended a hand to help her cousin to her feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Nah, it's fine." Artemisia's grin was back. She affectionately squeezed one of Ophelia's shoulders. "That was pretty cool, actually. Nifty little trick you got there."

"I believe it was your father who came up with it. Mother learned it from him."

"Really? Gotta have him teach it to me, then."

"I'm surprised he never did, actually," said Ophelia. She was about to continue when she noticed Artemisia suddenly going still. "What is it, Sia? What's wrong?"

"I heard something." Artemisia scanned their surroundings, the training grounds now quiet save for the occasional chirp from the birds in the trees. "No, it's more like..."

"Like someone was just here watching us?" Ophelia prompted. She had felt something too.

"Highness?" One of her guards had come up to her, his brow creased with worry. Ophelia could see that his comrades had reached for their hilts.

"It's gone, now," Artemisia said. "Whatever it was."

"It didn't feel malicious to me," added Ophelia. "Whatever it was, it seemed… _glad..._ to see us…"

Artemisia's face twisted in a grimace. After a while, though, she burst into laughter.

"Look at us, freaking out and hearing things!" She clapped Ophelia on the back. "I guess that means we should take a break, eh?"

"Yes, I wouldn't mind a little something to drink, actually." Ophelia felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Especially since we're ending it on a victory for me... my _first_ victory."

Artemisia ruffled her cousin's hair. She teased Ophelia all the way to the dining room.

* * *

Emil wasn't fond of the desert.

He had inherited from his parents a pale and freckled complexion, meaning that his skin burned easily under the sun. Lady Aht had bundled him up under several layers of clothing and hidden his bright auburn curls under a scarf, yet he could still feel the sting of the heat. The Lady's Satyros escort had teased profusely him over this.

The wind howled through the canyon, making Emil shuffle in his saddle. His horse gave a little whinny. The soft sounds of hooves on the sand told him someone was moving towards him.

"Is something wrong, little master?" It was Anders, Emil knew. Only Lady Aht's apprentice called him that. The half-human, half-Satyros was looking at him with inquisitive eyes.

"The wind sure sounds spooky around here," Emil admitted. "And my butt hurts from riding."

Anders let out a chuckle. "Mine too." He was the only one beside Emil who was on horseback. Unlike the other people in their little expedition, he had normal human feet. In truth, the only thing that hinted at his Beastkind heritage was a pair of long pointed ears. Otherwise, he had nothing of his Satyros mother other than her hair and the striking golden shade of his eyes.

Emil looked up front, where his teacher and the rest of her followers were marching. He had been born with rare magical potential, prompting his mother, the queen of Granorg, to foster him under the best magical authority she knew: the spiritual leader of the Satyros people, the Shaman Aht. Emil loved following the Lady's retinue in their travel across the continent, but he missed his mother and sister terribly. Father wrote less often than they did—he was very busy ruling his home province to the northeast of Granorg—but Emil had had at least the chance to visit him recently.

Before he had been sent to Lady Aht, Emil had spent little time away from his mother, save for these few horrible months when a civil war had torn Cygnus apart. Queen Eruca and Emil's uncle had rushed to their old ally's aid, leaving Emil, his sister and their three cousins safe in Granorg. Emil had been eight, then, and it had been the most terrifying period of his short life. It had taken much coaxing to convince him that travelling down to Cygnus was now as safe as could be.

 _The war has left profound marks,_ Lady Aht had told him. _Your healing skills will be much appreciated._ Emil had understood then, but still…

The wind gave another mournful wail. Emil shuddered again. "It's like the sound of someone _dying_."

Anders shrugged. "It might be. This a place where many lost spirits wander."

"Have you seen any?" Emil couldn't believe he had summoned the courage to ask such a question.

Anders' piercing golden gaze met Emil's brown eyes. "I did. They seemed content, for the most part. One of them even followed us for a bit."

_"Really?!"_

Anders laughed. "Don't be afraid, little master. It seemed very fond of you."

This didn't make Emil feel any safer. "Next time a spirit begins to stalk me, you tell me, right?"

"Of course," Anders reassured him, still laughing. "Of course."

* * *

"Bills, requisition order, another bunch of bills, a memo from Doctor Min, and… _hmm?"_

"What is it, Elia?"

Elianor looked up at her little brother. Rowan's shift at the hospital had ended early, and he had come to her little office to keep her company (Elia was grateful; time passed so slowly at this late hour). Elianor was born with a knack for figures and sums, and as such she helped run the family clinic, but Rowan had followed more directly into their mother's footsteps and become a healer. He had the same green eyes as Elianor, with brown curls that framed a placid face. Even with his back slightly bent, he towered over his sister—over anyone, really, except for their father.

"I got a letter for Kale," she explained. "The mailer must have made a mistake."

"The Thaumatech lab is not far," Rowan said. "I think Wynne's there, actually. We could go visit them both?"

Elianor sighed. "I could use the excuse to get myself some supper as well. Alright, let's go."

The Thaumatech R&D had their quarters right underneath the hospital, a relic of the time when a close relationship had existed between both divisions some thirty years ago. The war between Granorg and Alistel was over, however, and collaborations between the two departments had become something of a rare occurrence.

Elianor found the underground labs to be a horrid place. The machines kept whirring and shrieking in a way that made her skin crawl; worse still, they kept puffing smoke that made her choke. The scientists were for the most part so absorbed by their work that they paid little attention to anything else. _How can Wynne ever stand this?_

"I wonder if we'll find them at each other's throats again," Rowan wondered aloud.

Elianor rolled her eyes. "What do you expect? It's Wynne and Kale. Stubborn as a pair of old mules, the both of them." _  
_

Soon they were down in the lowest level, where they found quickly found two youths shuffling around a rather large mechanical contraption. It gave a loud honking sound, and Elianor scrunched up her nose before calling out her little sister's name.

Wynne whirled around. Her blue eyes were strangely distorted by her goggles. "Elia! And Rowan, too! What are you two doing down here?"

"There's been a bit of a mismatch, and a letter for Kale got lost over to our side," Elianor explained.

At the sound of her voice, the other youth—who had been climbing atop the giant contraption like a demented little monkey—stopped to gawk at her.

"A letter for me?" Kale yelled over the sounds of the machine. "From who?"

"Your sister," Elianor shouted back. "And your brother, too, I think?" She took a quick peek into the envelope. Yes—Soren had indeed slipped a note of his own alongside Artemisia's. "He must have been in Granorg recently, then."

With a graceless leap, Kale tumbled down. Wynne gasped as he went splat on the metal floor. Still, Kale got to his feet in a swift, nonchalant motion, wiping the oil smudged on his lab coat with a sweep of the hand. He removed his goggles, revealing sleepy grey eyes, then put on his glasses in a smooth, calculated movement, as though nothing had happened.

Elianor quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She handed him the envelope.

"Sia's managed to get her knight commission," Kale said after a while. "And—" Kale paused, mumbling out the rest of the letter, before saying "—and Soren left Granorg not long ago. He's coming back home!"

"How wonderful!" said Wynne. "Your parents will be so pleased!"

"It'll be nice to see him after all this time," Rowan added.

Elianor nodded. "Well, with that done, we'll be heading out," she said. "Wynne, you should come along. You've been working at this for ages."

"Only because this piece of junk just won't do what it's told!" Kale said, giving the machine a kick.

"It _does_ work," replied Wynne. "It's just, well…"

"It's just that its output is about 37% lower than your average Thaumachine," Kale huffed. "It's still too much of a loss. We need to prove to the bigwigs that we gotta switch from Mana to a more sustainable fuel, and that kind of figure's not gonna cut it."

"Maybe if we'd gone with my design for the turbine, then—"

"Your design works, but mine would generate more power if only I could refine it! With more time, I could—"

Wynne puffed out her cheeks. Elianor and Rowan exchanged a knowing look. _Here we go again…_

 _"That's_ your argument? And for your information, we didn't need all that chrome plating, didn't we? It cost us a _fortune!"_

"It's sturdier! Did you ever notice how much of a problem rust was for these old Thaumachines?"

"Yes, but we could have gone for cheaper alternatives. You just wanted the look, admit it!"

"Guys, " Rowan began, but it was useless. Wynne and Kale were lost in their squabbling.

"Well, I think that—" Kale abruptly stopped, looking up. His gaze seemed fixed on an empty spot near a large pipe at the top of their machine.

"What is it, Kale?" asked Elianor.

Kale's eye twitched. "I must be going crazy, but I swear… I swear I heard someone _laughing_."

Elianor, Rowan and Wynne stared at him.

"Really! It sounded like someone was laughing his ass off up there!"

Elianor grabbed hold of Kale's shoulders.

"I think that's enough for you today, young man," she said sternly, in her best impression of her mother.

Kale began to protest, "But—"

Elianor and Wynne turned to Rowan, silently invoking their brother's support. The latter nodded.

"Yes, you've worked enough for today, Kale," Rowan said. "It's time for a break, doctor's orders."

"You _guys—!"_

Elianor couldn't believe it. Kale was _whining_. Pity Auntie Raynie wasn't here to see this.

"Off you go!" Wynne said, pushing him out of the lab. Rowan followed after them, his eyes shining with amusement. Elianor remained still for a bit, glancing at the spot where Kale had been looking just a moment prior. She shook her head with a wry smile and headed out as well.

* * *

The sun was slowly dipping over the horizon. Hand hovering over his eyes, Soren observed the sky. The air was starting to get cool, refreshingly so. It was Soren's favourite time of the day. The sunset was breathtaking in Lazvil Hills. Soren hoisted up his bag, his bow and the two rabbits he'd caught earlier, and began to make his way upward.

His old dagger rattled in its scabbard. Soren sighed. He had brought the blasted thing along only for his mother's sake. His father had tried to teach his three children sword-fighting, once, but while little Artemisia had loved it (her poor twin had suffered so much that day!), Soren hadn't liked the experience very much. _It's alright,_ Father had said, putting a hand on Soren's shoulder, _I'd rather have it so you never have to use that kind of tool anyway._

Soren didn't stop until he came upon a large old tree that was teethering over the edge of a ravine. The sunset filtered through the leaves, bathing the small clearing in a warm glow. It would have been the perfect spot for a bit of painting, but Soren hadn't brought his colours along for this trip. He only had some charcoal, and that would not have done any justice to the beauty of the setting.

The sound of a faint wheeze took Soren out of his musings. He looked down and blinked. An old man was laying under the tree, apparently asleep. _How come I hadn't noticed him before?_ Soren watched the man's chest rise and fall with a frown; it was rare to come across someone here, especially one who looked as old and frail as this man did. Soren decided to approach him. His mother had told him that a certain fellowship existed between travelers. He observed her teachings wisely.

The old man was mumbling.

"Sir?" Soren said. "Sir, are you alright?"

The old man opened his eyes. "W-Where am I? Th-The twins and Ernst... where are they?"

"You're in Lazvil Hills. Do you know how you got here?"

The old man only grabbed his head before looking at Soren more closely. He mouthed something, eyes round with shock.

"Y-You look so much like—" Before he could say the name, the old man's voice died down, and Soren could hear no more. The stranger appeared too rattled to speak for a moment, but when he finally gathered his breath, a tired grin had formed on his lips. "Well, you have your mother's colouring, it seems. At least if she is the one I believe her to be."

"My mother?" Soren repeated, bewildered.

"But your eyes, they're just like—" The old man began to cough violently.

"Sir? _Sir?"_ Soren reached for his flask, presenting it to the old man. The latter offered him a feeble smile.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry. I was surprised, I suppose."

"Surprised?" said Soren. "Because I look like someone you know?" The mention of his mother was strange. It could be just the ramblings of an old man, however.

"You look like a boy I once knew," the old man said. His gaze slightly clouded up.

 _A boy…?_ "What happened to him?" Soren asked.

The old man just shrugged. "He did what all children do. He grew up."

An awkward silence followed. The old man stood up on unsteady feet, and he limped away from Soren. His gaze wandered over the green valleys that led to Judgement Cliff far up west. Soren heard him sharply drawing a breath.

"Conuts don't grow in Lazvil Hills," the old man abruptly said. His tone was so blunt, so disbelieving that Soren felt his lips twitch into a smile in spite of himself.

"Really? I remember finding some around these parts when I was a kid," Soren said. "I think they began to grow out here after the war. The government set up an initiative to slow down the desertification, don't you remember? They chose to plant Conuts, because they produce Mana or something of the sort. My brother could explain it to you better if he were here." In his teenage years, Kale had gone through a phase where he had wanted to study botany. He had finally settled on being an engineer, but not before first circling through mathematics, chemistry and astronomy ( _"Robots, duh!"_ was all the explanation Kale had given Soren when the latter had asked why he had chosen engineering over all these other topics. Soren didn't question his brother's choice, only his sanity).

"They do?" The old man's features lightened up with curiosity. "They produce Mana? They don't absorb it, like all other living beings do?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

The old man passed a hand through his whiskers. "That was it? That's all it took? Botany. _Botany_." He chuckled again, though this time he seemed so delighted the sound soon rose in intensity, rippling through the evening air. "That's all it took. Oh, Ernst, is that what you saw?"

It was the second time the old man had said that name. Soren found himself frowning. He hadn't exactly pierced the shroud of secrecy his family had put on his father's past, but he had assembled well enough pieces to understand why it was kept hidden. For one year, Soren had travelled the continent under the pretense of putting together a complete history of Vainqueur. In truth, his journey had been prompted by a desire to understand the mysteries that were at the core of the dynasty that had given birth to him and his two siblings. This old man—who was this Ernst he kept mentioning? It was true that it wasn't that rare of a name, but—

"Why, there are even some stocke flowers," the old man's voice brought Soren out of his musings. "How lovely..."

Soren smiled. "There's a kind of flower called stocke?" _Does Dad know about this?_

"There are many kinds of stockes, actually." The old man crouched down to peer more closely at the red flower. "But red stockes are my favourite, in truth. Do you know what they mean in the language of flowers?"

"Um," Soren hesitated, "no?"

"Belief in oneself. Strength of bonds." The old man ceased to speak; his gaze seemed fixed on something far, far way. "Sight of the future."

Soren rubbed his chin. "Interesting. I never really spared a thought for the language of flowers. Where did you learn—?"

"I think I should be going now," the old man interrupted him. Soren blinked at the suddenness of this statement.

"Night is falling," Soren said. "Are you sure this is wise? I have enough food for two. My father taught me how to make a delicious rabbit stew with some herbs that grow around here."

"Your father did?" the old man said, beaming. "He seems to be a very knowledgeable man."

"He is," Soren answered with a raised brow.

 _"Is_ , you said?" This single word seemed to make the old man even happier. Still, it was with a sigh that he continued, "Well, I'd rather leave you to your own devices." The old man's voice dwindled to a murmur, "I am honoured to have met you."

"Likewise," Soren said.

The old man refused to meet his eyes.

"I am not sure I am worthy of your respect, considering what I've done..." he whispered, his voice so low Soren could barely hear it.

"Sir?" Soren prompted. The old man raised his face toward Soren. His smile didn't seem so lively now. Soren was at a loss for words. How could one single expression contain so much sadness, he wondered?

"Go on. Go home to your family," the old man said. "I am going in the opposite direction anyway." He pointed to the small strip of desert that extended beyond the green expanses of Lazvil Hills.

"If you believe it's for the best, then," said Soren, "I guess it's goodbye."

"It is." The old man inclined his head. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye." Soren smiled as well, then turned away, toward Alistel.

Heinrich watched the boy - _Ernst's_ boy - disappear into the distance, his breathing slowly coming to a stop. As his vision began to fade, he sensed the warm touch of the green-white glow as it embraced him one final time.

How strange that he had always been so afraid. It really was easier than falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Annnd it's done, my very first first fanfic ever! Thanks to all of you for supporting me all the way, this was difficult to pull off, but I believe it helped me cope with rather darker things. Who knew torturing a fictional character could be so cathartic?
> 
> I hope the kiddies weren't too Mary-Sueish. And yes, Kale is named after a salad. Family tradition, you know.
> 
> The kids' ages:
> 
> Elianor: 27  
> Rowan: 25  
> Wynne: 22
> 
> Anders: 27
> 
> Soren: 21  
> Artemisia: 18  
> Kale: 18
> 
> Ophelia: 16  
> Emil: 13
> 
> In the end, I would personally thank Infernal Fantasy for supporting me til the end, catteries for bouncing off ideas with me (and in general being so enthusiatic to the story), quicksilver-ink for helping me with some chapters and leaving very kind comments, downtroddendeity aka Tez for giving me some of my best ideas, fairyring for their really nice comments, and shiro-arceus/hunter-eren and crymblade for leaving me so many reviews! A big thanks to all of those who left 'likes' on my Tumblr page too!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ishouldhavewaitedinsalt/InfernalFantasy for betaing this thing :D


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